A  \"£ 


CHRIST  IN  THE 
POETRY  OF   TODAY 


AN   ANTHOLOGY 
FROM   AMERICAN   POETS 


COMPILED   BY 

MARTHA  FOOTE  CROW 


THE    WOMANS    PRESS 

600    LEXINGTON    AVENUE 

NEW    YORK    CITY 

1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 

The  National  Board  of  the  Young  Womens  Christian  Associations 

of  the  United   States  of  America 

600   Lexington   Avenue 

New  York  City 


We  place  Thy  sacred  name  upon  our  browc; 

Our  cycles  from  Thy  natal  day  we  score: 
Yet,  spite  of  all  our  songs  and  all  our  vows, 

We  thirst  and  ever  thirst  to  know  Thee  mere. 

For  Thou  art  Mystery  and  Question  still; 

Even  when  we  see  Thee  lifted  as  a  sign 
Drawing  all  men  unto  that  hapless  hill 

With  the  resistless  power  of  Love  Divine. 

Still  Thou  art  Question — while  rings  in  our  ears 
Thine  outcry  to  a  world  discord-beset: 

Have  I  been  with  thee  all  these  many  years, 
0  World, — dost  thou  not  know  ME  even  yet? 


I 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  NATIVITY  OF  JESUS 1 

II 

THE  YOUTH  OF  JESUS 33 

III 

THE  MINISTRY  OF  JESUS 61 

IV 

THE  GREAT  WEEK  IN  JESUS'  LIFE 91 

V 

CHRIST  TRIUMPHANT 125 

VI 

WHAT  THINK  YE  OF  CHRIST? 137 

VII 

THE  WORLD'S  JESUS...  .   165 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THE  copyright  of  this  book  does  not  carry  with  it  the 
ownership  of  the  separate  poems.  These  remain  the 
possession  of  the  original  owners,  who  have  been  good 
enough  to  allow  the  use  of  them  in  this  anthology. 
For  such  use  the  compiler  extends  thanks  to  all  the 
publishers,  periodicals,  and  poets  who  have  thus  made 
the  collection  possible. 

Acknowledgments  are  here  made  to  the  many 
publishers  who  have  allowed  quotations  from  volumes 
published  by  them: 

For  permission  to  use  a  selection  from  Poems,  by 
Meredith  Nicholson,  copyright,  1906,  used  by  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  the  Bobbs-Merrill  Com 
pany. 

To  Mr.  E.  B.  Brooks,  publisher,  for  permission  to 
use  a  poem  called  "The  Madonna  of  the  Carpenter 
Shop, "  from  The  Lark  Went  Singing,  by  Ruth  Guthrie 
Harding. 

To  the  Century  Company  for  permission  to  use 
poems  from  Collected  Plays  and  Poems,  by  Cale  Young 
Rice. 

To  the  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Company  for  permission 
to  quote  from  America  the  Beautiful  and  Other  Poems, 
by  Katharine  Lee  Bates,  and  from  Poems,  by  Sophie 
Jewett. 

To  the  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  permission 
to  quote  from  The  Roadside  Fire,  copyright,  1912,  and 


Life  and  Living,  copyright,  1916,  by  Amelia  Josephine 
Burr;  and  from  Trees  and  Other  Poems,  copyright,  1914, 
by  Joyce  Kilmer. 

To  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company  for  per 
mission  to  quote  from  The  Shoes  of  Happiness  and 
Other  Poems  and  from  Lincoln  and  Other  Poems,  by 
Edwin  Markham. 

To  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Company  for  permission  to 
quote  from  The  Frozen  Grail  and  Other  Poems,  by  Elsa 
Barker. 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  selections 
from  Chicago  Poems,  by  Carl  Sandburg. 

To  the  Hough  ton  Mifflin  Company  for  selections 
from  Poems  and  Poetic  Dramas,  by  William  Vaughn 
Moody;  Complete  Poems,  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder; 
Poems,  by  Florence  Earle  Coates;  The  Heart  of  the 
Road,  by  Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  Songs  of  America 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Edna  Dean  Proctor;  In  the  High 
Hills,  by  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt;  A  Brief  Pilgrimage 
in  the  Holy  Land  and  A  Scallop  Shell  of  Quiet,  by 
Caroline  Hazard;  Happy  Ending,  by  Louise  Imogen 
Guiney;  and  Songs  of  Sunrise  Lands,  by  Clinton 
Scollard. 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch,  publisher,  for  a  selection 
from  The  Free  Spirit,  by  Henry  Bryan  Binns. 

To  the  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for  selec 
tions  from  Lyrics  of  Brotherhood,  by  Richard  Burton. 

To  Mr.  David  McKay,  publisher,  for  a  selection 
from  Madrigali,  by  T.  A.  Daly. 

To  Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  selections  from  The 
Earth  Cry,  by  Theodosia  Garrison;  from  The  Cry  of 
Youth,  by  Harry  Kemp;  and  from  The  Jew  to  Jesus 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Florence  Kiper  Frank. 

To   the   Macmillan   Company   for   selections   from 


Poems,  by  G.  E.  Woodberry;  from  You  and  I,  by 
Harriet  Monroe;  from  Rivers  to  the  Sea,  by  Sara  Teas- 
dale;  from  The  Great  Valley,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters;  and 
from  The  Pilgrim  Kings,  by  Thomas  Walsh. 

To  Messrs.  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Company  for  a  selec 
tion  from  Phidias  and  Other  Poems,  by  Frank  W.  Gun- 
saulus. 

To  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Mosher,  publisher,  for  selections 
from  A  Wayside  Lute,  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  selections  from 
Fresh  Fields  and  Legends  Old  and  New,  by  Sarah  J.  Day. 

To  the  Fleming  H.  Re  veil  Company  for  selections 
from  The  Empire  of  Love,  by  W.  J.  Dawson. 

To  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  selections 
from  The  Children  of  the  Night,  by  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson;  Poems  (copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Scrib 
ner's  Sons),  by  Henry  van  Dyke;  and  Poems,  by 
Sidney  Lanier. 

To  Messrs.  Seymour,  Doughaday  &  Company  for 
selections  from  Lyrics  of  a  Lad,  by  Scharmel  Iris. 

To  Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Company  for  selec 
tions  from  The  Wayside  Shrine,  by  Martha  E.  Pettus; 
A  Vanished  World,  by  Douglas  Duer;  The  Border  of 
the  Lake,  by  Agnes  Lee;  and  The  Beloved  Adventure,  by 
John  Hall  Wheelock. 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  selec 
tions  from  Provenga,  by  Ezra  Pound;  and  from  Poems, 
by  J.  B.  Tabb. 

To  the  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company  for  a  selection 
from  The  Man  Sings  (copyright  by  the  Stewart  &  Kidd 
Company,  1914),  by  Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott. 

To  Messrs.  Sturgis  &  Walton  for  selections  from 
A  Little  Book  of  Homespun  Verse,  by  Margaret  E. 
Sangster, 


To  the  John  C.  Winston  Company  for  a  selection 
from  Factories,  by  Margaret  Widdemer. 

To  the  following  periodicals  thanks  are  due  for  per 
mission  to  quote  certain  poems  from  their  pages: 
To  The  Delineator  for  "The  Tears  of  Mary,"  by  Theo- 
dosia  Garrison;  to  the  American  Magazine  for  "His 
Playmate,"  by  Harry  Kemp;  to  The  Bookman  for 
"On  Christmas  Day,"  by  Georgia  Wood  Pangborn;  to 
the  Century  Magazine  for  "My  Father  and  I,"  by 
Badger  Clark,  and  for  "The  Blessed  Road,"  by  Charles 
Buxton  Going;  to  The  Forum  for  "The  Pharisee,"  by 
Dorothy  Landers  Beall;  to  Harper's  Bazar  for  "The 
Twain  of  Her,"  by  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward; 
to  Richardson  Wright,  editor  of  House  and  Garden,  for 
"Gates  and  Doors,"  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  and  to  the 
American  Poetry  Review  for  "His  Laureate,"  by  the 
same  author;  to  the  Frank  A.  Munsey  Company  for 
permission  to  quote  the  poem,  "Judge  Me,  O  Lord," 
by  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn,  which  appeared  in  Munsey's 
Magazine;  to  The  Columbiad  for  permission  to  use  a 
poem  by  Joyce  Kilmer  which  appeared  in  that  publica 
tion;  to  the  editors  of  Lippincott's  Magazine  for  "The 
Magi  and  the  Faery  Folk,"  by  Edith  Thomas;  to  The 
Masses  for  "Comrade  Jesus,"  by  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn; 
to  the  New  York  Evening  Post  for  "The  Wooden 
Christ,"  by  Martha  Foote  Crow;  to  The  Survey  for 
"The  Shadow,"  by  Elizabeth  Carter;  to  the  Christian 
Advocate  for  "The  Nazareth  Shop,"  by  Robert  Mcln- 
tyre;  and  to  The  Independent  for  "A  Page  from  Ameri 
ca's  Psalter"  and  "John,"  by  Willard  Wattles.  The 
poem,  "The  Sepulchre  in  the  Garden,"  by  President 
John  Finley,  is  used  by  permission  of  Harper's  Maga 
zine,  copyright,  1917,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.  The 
Outlook  gives  permission  to  quote  a  poem  by  Robert 


Haven  Schauffler  called  "The  White  Comrade."  The 
author  wishes  this  note  to  be  added:  "After  W.  H. 
Leathem's  'The  White  Comrade."3 

Among  the  poets  mentioned  above  many  were  kind 
enough  to  add  their  permission  to  that  of  the  publish 
ers.  The  gracious  response  of  the  following  must  be 
here  acknowledged:  Professor  Katharine  Lee  Bates, 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  Richard  Burton,  Badger  Clark, 
Sarah  N.  Cleghorn,  Florence  Earle  Coates,  T.  A.  Daly, 
Theodosia  Garrison,  Dr.  Frank  W.  Gunsaulus,  Ruth 
Guthrie  Harding,  Caroline  Hazard,  Scharmel  Iris,  Harry 
Kemp,  Joyce  Kilmer,  Agnes  Lee,  Richard  Le  Gallienne, 
Charles  Buxton  Going,  Mai  Elmendorf  Lillie,  Edwin 
Markham,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Harriet  Monroe, 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody,  Martha  E.  Pettus,  Lizette 
Woodworth  Reese,  Cale  Young  Rice,  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson,  Carl  Sandburg,  Robert  Haven  Schauffler, 
Clinton  Scollard,  Sara  Teasdale,  Edith  Thomas, 
Thomas  Walsh,  George  Edward  Woodberry,  and 
Margaret  Widdemer. 

Personal  acknowledgments  are  also  to  be  made  to 
the  following  poets  and  owners  of  copyright  who  have 
allowed  quotation  of  poems:  to  Mr.  George  M.  P. 
Baird  for  permission  to  quote  a  poem  called  "Mused 
Mary  in  Old  Age,"  from  'Prentice  Songs,  and  "A  Ballad 
of  Wise  Men,"  from  Rune  and  Rann\  to  Marian  Pelton 
Guild  for  permission  to  use  "The  Prodigal  Son," 
from  Semper  Plus  Ultra;  to  Mrs.  Ella  C.  Mclntyre  for 
the  use  of  "The  Nazareth  Shop"  and  "The  Mission 
aries,"  by  Bishop  Robert  Mclntyre;  to  Mrs.  Harriet 
Moody  for  permission  to  quote  "Second  Coming"  and 
"Good  Friday  Night,"  by  William  Vaughn  Moody; 
to  May  Riley  Smith  for  the  use  of  poems  from  Some 
times  and  Other  Poems;  to  William  Ralph  Erskine  for 


"Rabboni,"  by  Barbara  Peattie  Erskine;  to  Willard 
Wattles  for  permission  to  select  from  a  number  of  his 
poems  on  this  subject  which  will  be  gathered  by  him  at 
some  future  time  into  a  book;  to  Rev.  Carroll  Lund 
Bates  for  permission  to  quote  a  poem  from  The  Master; 
to  Mr.  Herbert  D.  Ward  for  the  use  of  "The  Twain  of 
Her,"  by  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward;  to  Richard  Le 
Gallienne  for  the  use  of  "The  Second  Crucifixion," 
from  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and.  Other  Poems;  to 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody  for  "The  Fishers,"  from 
The  Wayfarers;  to  Richard  Burton  for  "On  Syrian 
Hills,"  from  Memorial  Day  and  Other  Poems;  to  Mar 
garet  Widdemer  for  "Ballad  of  Wise  Men"  and  "The 
Old  Road  to  Paradise";  to  Clinton  Scollard  for  poems 
that  have  appeared  only  in  privately  printed  volumes. 

Certain  poets  have  been  good  enough  to  send  poems 
in  manuscript.  Among  these  Edwina  Stanton  Babcock 
sent  "Told  in  the  Market  Place";  Helen  Coale  Crew, 
"The  Cedars  of  Lebanon";  Robert  Haven  Schauffler, 
"The  White  Comrade";  Edith  Thomas,  "To  See  the 
New  Baby";  Mai  Elmendorf  Lillie,  " Consolator " ; 
Harry  Lee,  "My  Master"  and  "Madness";  and  Mary 
Bowen  Brainerd,  "The  Christ  of  Raphael's  Transfig 
uration." 

In  regard  to  capitalization,  indentation  and  punctu 
ation,  the  precedent  of  the  authors  themselves  has 
been  followed,  using  the  latest  editions  where  possible. 


INTRODUCTION 

That  stern  prophet,  Dr.  Josiah  Strong,  in  one  of  his 
illuminating  treatises  refers  with  a  fine  inadvertence 
to  "the  return  to  Christ  that  is  now  taking  place.'* 
This  phrase,  like  a  signboard  hidden  among  the  shadows 
of  a  well-forested  pathway,  might  elude  the  glance  of 
the  passer-by.  But  when  I  saw  it,  the  inscription 
aroused  me  to  eager  question.  I  had  been  for  a  long 
time  gathering  references  to  poems  about  Jesus,  just 
because  they  had  a  special  interest  for  me,  but  with 
no  definite  thought  of  sharing  my  finds  with  others. 
Can  it  be,  I  now  said,  that  our  poets  have  all  along 
been  singing  about  the  events  in  the  life  of  Jesus  and 
I  have  been  deaf  to  them? 

We  had  always  had  poets  with  us,  I  realized,  who 
had  been  ranked  as  pious  poets,  who  had  been  swept 
to  the  empyrean  by  religious  themes  only.  Such  poets 
gave  their  whole  attention  to  adoration,  praise  and 
prayer.  They  stood  for  that.  But  as  for  the  general 
run  of  poets — they  wrote  about  love,  companionship, 
the  joys  of  nature,  the  delight  of  delight,  and  very 
especially,  the  sadness  of  sadness.  But  very  rarely 
was  found  a  poem  about  Jesus  mingled  with  those 
on  life's  general  problems,  or  on  the  beauty  of  the 


world,  or  the  necessity  of  enduring  bravely  the  afflic 
tion  of  being  alive  in  a  world  that  was  felt  to  be  far 
less  than  a  possible  best.  God  was  still  sitting  in  a 
far  away  sky  and  Christ  was  thought  of  as  something 
separate  from  life,  as  something  shut  up  carefully  in  a 
place  called  a  church. 

Then  I  laid  aside  my  slender  sheaf  of  poems  about 
Jesus,  gathered  by  chance  or  in  idle  moments,  and  be 
gan  to  put  the  question  more  definitely  to  proof.  First 
I  ran  through  some  fifty  volumes  of  poems  of  about 
1890.  I  found  few  or  no  poems  about  Jesus.  Then 
I  plunged  in  again  at  1895  and  found  but  a  lonely  one 
here  and  there.  At  1900  there  were  more,  distinctly 
more.  At  1905  there  was  a  still  brighter  dawn.  But 
when  I  came  to  1910  and  thereabouts,  times  were 
changed.  Something  had  verily  happened.  The  fas 
cinating  theme  of  Jesus,  the  dramatic  quality  of  his 
human  career,  the  miracle  of  his  personality,  had  been 
discovered;  and  the  position  of  the  poem  that  il 
luminated  some  incident  in  the  life  of  Christ  or  that 
enthroned  some  quality  of  his  character  was  now 
securely  established  in  nearly  every  book  of  poetry. 
I  discovered  two  things:  that  I  had  not  been  deaf  to 
the  poets'  earlier  singing  about  Christ,  for  they  had  not 
been  singing  of  Him  at  all;  and  also  that  "the  return 
of  Christ"  was  now  being  delicately  registered  by  the 
poets  of  to-day  in  poems  of  varying  distinction  and 
with  an  impulse  commensurate  with  the  power  of  that 
poetic  expression  that  has  lately  come  upon  us  and  that 
promises  so  much  for  our  future. 

And  the  poems  were  often  of  a  new  kind  never  seen 
in  books  of  poetry  before.  Incidents  in  his  life  were 


imaginatively  reproduced  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the 
very  semblance  that  they  had  when  He  was  upon 
earth,  and  often  with  a  concreteness  that  is  the  gift 
of  the  new  poetic  impulse  of  our  time. 

Of  course  each  poem  of  this  kind  must  be  considered 
as  an.  expression  of  the  author's  own  angle  of  thought. 
But  if  one  considers  such  a  group  as  is  here  collected, 
the  poems  may  be  thought  of  as  the  facets  of  a  dia 
mond;  taken  all  together  they  may  reflect  something 
like  the  white  light  of  truth. 

Selecting,  then,  from  the  superabundant  wealth  of 
poetical  material  on  this  theme,  written  by  the  poets 
of  the  United  States  of  America  since  about  1900,  and 
arranging  them  in  the  order  of  the  events  of  his  life, 
we  have  here  a  sort  of  new  biography  of  Jesus,  each 
chapter  of  which  consists  of  a  poem  written  by  a  dif 
ferent  author,  and  the  whole  forming  the  poetic  re 
action  of  our  time  to  the  thought  of  Jesus,  what  He 
was,  what  his  life  meant  to  the  world,  and,  it  may  be 
added  in  a  separate  group,  what  He  might  yet  be  to 
the  world  if  we  would  but  listen  to  the  Voice  that  still 
rings  in  our  ears. 

That  is,  roughly  speaking,  what  has  been  attempted 
in  this  book.  Stringing  the  gems  of  poetry  upon  a  golden 
cord  of  Bible  phrases,  a  poetic  biography  emerges. 
Then  follows  a  series  of  comments  representing  dif 
ferent  historical  eras  as  our  poets  have  imagined  the 
Good  News  spreading  circle  after  circle  throughout 
the  world.  After  this  the  searchlight  is  cast  upon 
our  own  times,  on  our  hardness  and  our  deafness,  on 
our  refusals  and  our  brutalities,  on  our  dismay  of  the 
present  moment.  Ultimately  our  poets  are  gifted  to 


see  a  ray  of  hope.  The  White  Comrade  moves  along 
the  distracted  battle  line,  the  Old  Road  to  Paradise  is 
a  travelled  way,  and  after  the  day  of  utter  havoc, 
Brotherhood  is  to  spring  anew  from  ruin. 

Beyond  the  elisions  necessary  in  trying  to  cram  the 
best  of  the  poetry  into  small  space,  but  little  guidance 
was  required  in  the  selection.  I  hope  no  theological  bent 
is  discoverable.  Jew  and  Gentile,  Protestant,  Roman 
Catholic,  Neo-Pagan,  Socialist,  Emersonian — all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  lovers  and  admirers  of  Jesus  are 
represented  in  this  collection.  The  one  rule  has  been 
only  this — does  the  poem  represent  a  true  reverence 
and  love?  To  be  entered  in  this  catalog  it  is  not  re 
quired  that  a  poet  shall  claim  that  he  fully  under 
stands  Jesus  Christ! 

MARTHA  FOOTE  CROW. 


THE    STORY 

OF   THE 
NATIVITY  OF  JESUS 


CHRIST 

IN   THE 

POETRY   OF   TO-DAY 


Thou  shall  call  his  name  Jesus. 

God  whispered  and  a  silence  fell;    the  world 

Poised  one  expectant  moment  like  a  soul 
Who  sees  at  Heaven's  threshold  the  unfurled 
White  wings  of  cherubim,  the  sea  impearled, 

And  pauses,  dazed,  to  comprehend  the  whole; 
Only  across  all  space  God's  whisper  came 
And  burned  about  her  heart  like  some  white  flame. 

Then  suddenly  a  bird's  note  thrilled  the  peace, 
And  earth  again  jarred  noisily  to  life 

With  a  great  murmur  as  of  many  seas. 

But  Mary  sat  with  hands  clasped  on  her  knees, 
And  lifted  eyes  with  all  amazement  rife, 

And  in  her  heart  the  rapture  of  the  Spring 

Upon  its  first  sweet  day  of  blossoming. 

The  Annunciation 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


Let  us  now  go  wen  unto 

and  see  this  thing  that  is  come  to  pass. 

0  little  town,  0  little  town, 

Upon  the  hills  so  far, 
We  see  you,  like  a  thing  sublime, 

Across  the  great  gray  wastes  of  time, 
And  men  go  up  and  men  go  down, 

But  follow  still  the  star! 

And  this  is  humble  Bethlehem 

In  the  Judean  wild; 
And  this  is  lowly  Bethlehem 

Wherein  a  mother  smiled; 
Yea,  this  is  happy  Bethlehem 

That  knew  the  little  Child! 

Aye,  this  is  glorious  Bethlehem 
Where  He  drew  living  breath 

(Ah,  precious,  precious   Bethlehem! — 
So  every  mortal  saith) 

Who  brought  to  all  that  tread  the  earth 
Life's  triumph  over  death! 

0  little  town,  0  little  town, 

Upon  the  hills  afar, 
You  call  to  us,  a  thing  sublime, 

Across  the  great  gray  wastes  of  time, 
For  men  go  up  and  men  go  down, 

But  follow  still  the  star! 

The  Little  Town 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

4 


And  there  was  no  room 
for  them  in  the  inn. 


There  was  a  gentle  hostler 

(And  blessed  be  his  name!) 
He  opened  up  the  stable 

The  night  Our  Lady  came. 
Our  Lady  and  Saint  Joseph, 

He  gave  them  food  and  bed, 
And  Jesus  Christ  has  given  him 

A  glory  round  his  head. 


So  let  the  gate  swing  open 

However  poor  the  yard, 
Lest  weary  people  visit  you 

And  find  their  passage  barred. 
Unlatch  the  door  at  midnight 

And  let  your  lantern  s  glow 
Shine  out  to  guide  the  traveller's  feet 

To  you  across  the  snow. 


There  was  a  courteous  hostler 

(He  is  in  Heaven  to-night!) 
He  held  Our  Lady's  bridle 

And  helped  her  to  alight, 
He  spread  clean  straw  before  her 

Whereon  she  might  lie  down, 
And  Jesus  Christ  has  given  him 

An  everlasting  crown. 


"  'Unlock'  the '  door  '{his  evening 

And  let  the  gate  swing  wide, 
Let  all  who  ask  for  shelter 

Come  speedily  inside. 
What  if  your  yard  be  narrow? 

What  if  your  house  be  small? 
There  is  a  Guest  is  coming 

Will  glorify  it  all. 

There  was  a  joyous  hostler 

Who  knelt  on  Christmas  morn 
Beside  the  radiant  manger 

Wherein  his  Lord  was  born. 
His  heart  was  full  of  laughter, 

His  soul  was  full  of  bliss 
When  Jesus,  on  His  mother's  lap, 

Gave  him  His  hand  to  kiss. 


Unbar  your  heart  this  evening 

And  keep  no  stranger  out, 
Take  from  your  soul's  great  portal 

The  barrier  of  doubt. 
To  humble  folk  and  weary 

Give  hearty  welcoming, 
Your  breast  shall  be  to-morrow 

The  cradle  of  a  King. 

Gates  and  Doors:  A  Ballad  of  Christmas  Eve 

JOYCE  KILMER 
6 


Ye  shall  find  a  babe 
wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes, 
and  lying  in  a  manger. 


The  Ox  he  openeth  wide  the  Doore 

And  from  the  Snowe  he  calls  her  inne, 

And  he  hath  seen  her  Smile  therefor, 

Our  Lady  without  Sinne. 

Now  soone  from  Sleepe 

A  Starre  shall  leap, 

And  soone  arrive  both  King  and  Hinde; 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  O,  the  Place  co'd  I  but  find! 


The  Ox  hath  hush'd  his  voyce  and  bent 

Trewe  eyes  of  Pitty  ore  the  Mow, 

And  on  his  lovelie  Neck,  forspent, 

The  Blessed  layes  her  Browe. 

Around  her  feet 

Full  Warm  and  Sweete 

His  Bowerie  Breath  doth  meeklie  dwell; 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  sore  am  I  with  Vaine  Travel. 


The  Ox  is  Host  in  Judah  stall, 
And  Host  of  more  than  onelie  one, 
For  close  she  gathereth  withal 
Our  Lorde,  her  littel  Sonne: 


Glad  Hinde  and  King 

Their  Gyfte  may  bring, 

But  wo'd  to-night  my  Teares  were  there; 

Amen,  Amen: 
Between  her  Bosom  and  His  hayre! 

Nativity  Song 
LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY 


My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord.  .  . 
for  he  hath  looked  upon  the  low  estate 
of  his  handmaid. 

On  that  divine  all-hallowed  morn 
When  Christ  in  Bethlehem  was  born, 
How  lone  did  Mary  seem  to  be, 
The  kindly  beasts  for  company! 

But  when  she  .saw  her  infant's  face — 
Fair  with  the  soul's  unfading  grace, 
Softly  she  wept  for  love's  excess, 
For  painless  ease  and  happiness. 

She  pressed  her  treasure  to  her  heart — 

A  lowly  mother,  set  apart 

In  the  dear  way  that  mothers  are, 

And  heaven  seemed  high,  and  earth  afar: 

And  when  grave  kings  in  sumptuous  guise 
Adored  her  babe,  she  knew  them  wise; 
For  at  his  touch  her  sense  grew  dim — 

So  all  her  being  worshipped  him. 

8 


A  nimbus  seemed  to  crown  the  head 
Low-nestled  in  that  manger-bed, 
And  Mary's  forehead,  to  our  sight, 
Wears  ever  something  of  its  light; 

And  still  the  heart — poor  pensioner! 
In  its  affliction  turns  to  her — 
Best  love  of  all,  best  understood, 
The  type  of  selfless  motherhood! 

When  Christ  Was  Born 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 


The  cedars  of  Lebanon, 

where  the  birds  make  their  nests. 

Murmured  all  night  in  cedar'd  Lebanon 

The  tree-tops'  odorous  sigh; 
Murmured  all  night  beneath  the  steadfast  stars 

In  frosty  sky. 

Whisper'd  the  pines — O  softly!   where  the  hills 

Uplifted  to  the  night, 
A  plaintive  dream-song  to  the  snowy  earth 

All  virgin  white. 

Sighed  the  tall  cedars;   fragrant  balsams  wept; 

The  firs  and  hemlocks  moaned; 
While  through  their  tremulous  tops  the  sweeping  winds 

Their  hymns  intoned. 

9 


Think  you  the  green  trees  slept  while  Mary  grieved 

In  pain  and  travail  sore? 
Nay,  night-long  they  watched  with  her,  till  at  dawn 

Her  babe  she  bore. 

The  Cedars  of  Lebanon 

HELEN  COALE  CREW 


And  they  came  with  haste, 

and  found  the  babe  lying  in  the  manger. 

The  Little  Jesus  came  to  town; 
The  wind  blew  up,  the  wind  blew  down; 
Out  in  the  street  the  wind  was  bold; 
Now  who  would  house  Him  from  the  cold? 

Then  opened  wide  a  stable  door, 
Fair  were  the  rushes  on  the  floor; 
The  Ox  put  forth  a  horned  head; 
"Come,  little  Lord,  here  make  Thy  bed." 

Uprose  the  Sheep  were  folded  near; 
"Thou  Lamb  of  God,  come,  enter  here." 
He  entered  there  to  rush  and  reed, 
Who  was  the  Lamb  of  God  indeed. 

The  little  Jesus  came  to  town; 
With  ox  and  sheep  He  laid  Him  down; 
Peace  to  the  byre,  peace  to  the  fold, 
For  that  they  housed  Him  from  the  cold! 

A  Christmas  Folk-Song 

LlZETTE    WOODWORTH    REESE 
10 


Good  tidings  of  great  joy 
which  shall  be  to  all  the  people. 


Two  little  angel-sisters, 

Just  called  from  earth  away — 
What  brings  them  back  from  Heaven, 

At  dawning  of  The  Day? 
Two  little  Bethlehem  sisters— 

They  had  a  childish  way: 
Where'er  was  a  new  baby, 

There,  too,  full  soon  were  they! 

One  might  have  seen  them  running 
Along  old  Bethlehem  street  .  .  . 

"Oh,  let  us  see  the  baby- 
How  sweet  it  is — how  sweet! 

And  let  us  touch  its  hands, 
And  let  us  kiss  its  feet." 

One  might  have  heard  them  talking 
To  every  one  they  meet. 

When  came  this  Blessed  Baby 

They  followed  Him  below  .  .  . 
Their  wings  are  in  the  shadow, 

Their  faces  all  aglow — 
Save  for  those  wings  half-hidden, 

I  own,  I  should  not  know 
But  they  were  Bethlehem  children, 

That  just  love  babies  so! 

To  See  the  New  Baby 
(to  accompany  the  picture  of  the 
Nativity  by  Gherardo  delle  Notte) 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS 
11 


Fear  not,  Mary:  for  thou 
hast  found  favor  with  God. 

Joseph,  the  simple  tradesman,  sat  near  by, 
Awed  by  his  wonder,  stilled  by  sympathy; 
Vaguely  he  mused  on  what  his  eyes  had  seen, 
Or  pondered  slowly  what  the  morn  might  mean. 
Mary  slept  on — that  first  blest  mother-sleep; 
He  watched  alone;    the  night  was  growing  deep. 
Amazed  he  marked  new  glory  flood  her  face; 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  from  her  lowly  place 
She  called  his  name,  as  one  who  dreams  a  dream. 
And  as  he  came,  her  face  did  strangely  gleam. 
Her  arms  lay  open,  and  with  knowing  glance, 
He  knew  he  heard  her  speaking  in  a  trance. 

"Look,  Joseph,  on  my  Babe — He  is  a  King! 
Come  near  and  touch  my  hand;   I  hear  the  ring 
Of  wondrous  anthems  bursting  from  the  sky; 
I  am  bewildered  and  I  know  not  why. 
Look,  sleeps  He  well?     Ah,  Joseph,  bear  with  me 
In  loving  patience  as  thou  hast,  for  we — 
Joseph,  they  sing  again!  Hear  ye  the  choir? 
Their  faces  shine  as  with  a  sacred  fire. 
They  hover  near  us —  O,  a  mighty  throng 
Are  singing  for  my  Babe  His  natal-song! 
Before  His  star  a  thousand  stars  take  flight — 
Who  placed  it  there,  that  wondrous,  holy  Light? 
My  joy — dear  Joseph,  can  I  bear  it  all? 

My  joy! — Ah,  see  around  me  fall 
12 


The  dismal  shadows  of  a  distant  cross! — 
My  fathers'  God,  is  all  this  gain  or  loss?" 

And  Joseph — for  he  could  not  understand — 
Knelt  by  her  side  and,  wond'ring,  kissed  her  hand. 

Joseph  and  Mary 
ROSCOE  OILMAN  STOTT 


And  there  were  shepherds  in  the  same  country, 
keeping  watch  by  night  over  their  Hock 

First  Shepherd,  a  youth: 

I  saw  a  wonder  as  I  came  along: 
Out  of  the  sky  there  dropped  a  shining  song. 
I  do  not  know  if  stars  in  heaven  have  wings; 
But  look,  and  listen! — there  it  soars  and  sings. 

Second  Shepherd,  an  old  man: 

My  eyes  are  dazzled  for  the  light  is  strong. 

The  Angel: 

I  bring  good  tidings,  snepherds,  have  no  fear: 
The  Saviour  of  the  whole  world  is  come  near. 
A  child  is  born  to-night  in  Bethlehem 
Who  brings  great  joy  to  all,  and  most  to  them 
Who  are  most  poor.    The  King!    The  King  is  here ! 

First  Shepherd: 

Where  is  his  palace?     Can  we  find  the  way? 
Second  Shepherd: 

We  have  had  kings  enough.     Must  we  go  pay 

More  taxes  to  a  new  one? 
13 


The  Angel: 

Come  and  bring 
The  love  of  simple  hearts  unto  this  king. 

Third  Shepherd,  a  man  of  middle  age: 
I  could  bring  only  tears  where  a  child  lay. 

First  Shepherd  (aside} : 

Why  can  he  not  forget  his  year-old  pain? 

Second  Shepherd  (aside): 
Hearts  that  break  slowly  will  not  heal  again. 

The  Angel: 

Good-will,  good-will,  and  peace  to  all  the  earth 
Born  in  a  cattle  stable,  lo!   his  birth 
Is  holy.     King  of  Love,  he  comes  to  reign. 

Third  Shepherd: 

When  harvests  fail,  and  all  the  sheep  are  dead, 
And  little  children  cry  and  cry  for  bread, 
Grow  tired  at  last,  and  sicken  and  lie  still, 
Will  any  sing  of  peace  there  and  good-will 
To  us  who  watch  beside  an  empty  bed? 

First  Shepherd: 

I  think  that  when  the  King  of  Love  is  grown, 
And  hearts  of  men  are  loving  like  his  own, 
He  who  has  gold  will  with  his  brother  share; 
There  will  be  bread  and  wine  and  fire  to  spare; 
For  who  can  love,  yet  sit  and  feast  alone? 

Second  Shepherd: 
Quick,  let  us  go!    These  dim  old  eyes  would  see 

A  king  who  comes  in  peace  and  poverty. 
14 


First  Shepherd: 

I  see  a  hundred  white  stars  drifting  down; 

They  circle  yonder  over  Bethlehem  town. 
Chorus  of  Angels: 

Glory  to  God!     Good- will  to  men  shall  be' 

The  Shepherds 

SOPHIE  JEWETT 


We  saw  his  star  in  the  east. 

Softly  I  come  into  the  dance  of  the  spheres 
Into  the  choir  of  lights, 

New  from  my  nest  in  God's  heart. 
O  Night,  the  chosen  of  nights, 
Longing  and  dream  of  the  years, 
Blessed  thou  art! 

Golden  the  fruit  hangs  on  the  hyaline  tree; 
Golden  the  glistening  tide 

Sweeps  through  the  heavens;   the  cars 
Of  the  great  mooned  planets  glide 
Golden;   and  yet  to  me 
Bow  down  the  stars; 

Casting  their  crowns,  bright  with  seonian  reigns. 
Under  the  flight  of  my  feet 

Eager  for  Bethlehem, 
Thither  with  music-beat 
Blent  of  innumerous  strains 
Marshalling  them. 

15 


Sweetly  their  chant  soars  through  unsearchable  space, 
Quivering  vespers  that  thrill 

Into  the  deep  nocturne, 
Symphony  I  fulfill, 
I  who  like  Mary's  face 
Wonder  and  yearn, 

Cherish,  adore,  keeping  the  watch  above 
The  Word  made  flesh  to-night, 

Wonderful  Word  impearled 
In  childhood  holy-white, 
Word  that  is  Godhood,  Love, 
Light  of  the  World. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


And  lo,  the  star,  which  they  saw 
in  the  east,  went  before  them. 


I 

The  Kings  of  the  East  are  riding 

To-night  to  Bethlehem. 
The  sunset  glows  dividing, 
The  Kings  of  the  East  are  riding; 
A  star  their  journey  guiding, 

Gleaming  with  gold  and  gem 
The  Kings  of  the  East  are  riding 

To-night  to  Bethlehem. 

16 


II 

To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of  Zion 

The  starry  host  troops  forth; 
The  golden-glaived  Orion 
To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of  Zion; 
The  Archer  and  the  Lion, 

The  Watcher  of  the  North; 
To  a  strange  sweet  harp  of    Zion 

The  starry  host  sweeps  forth. 

Ill 

There  beams  above  a  manger 

The  child-face  of  a  star; 
Amid  the  stars  a  stranger, 
It  beams  above  a  manger; 
What  means  this  ether-ranger 

To  pause  where  poor  folk  are? 
There  beams  above  a  manger 

The  child-face  of  a  star. 

The  Kings  of  the  East 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


The  star  came  and  stood  over 
where  the  young  child  was. 

The  day  the  Christ-child's  tender  eyes 
Unveiled  their  beauty  on  the  earth, 

God  lit  a  new  star  in  the  skies 
To  flash  the  message  of  his  birth; 

And  wise  men  read  the  glowing  sign, 

And  came  to  greet  the  Child  divine. 
17 


Low  kneeling  in  the  stable's  gloom, 
Their  precious  treasures  they  unrolled; 

The  place  was  rich  with  sweet  perfume; 
Upon  the  floor  lay  gifts  of  gold. 

And  thus  adoring  they  did  bring 

To  Christ  the  earliest  offering. 

I  think  no  nimbus  wreathed  the  head 
Of  the  young  King  so  rudely  throned; 

The  quilt  of  hay  beneath  Him  spread 
The  sleepy  kine  beside  Him  owned; 

And  here  and  there  in  the  torn  thatch 

The  sky  thrust  in  a  starry  patch. 

Oh,  when  was  new-born  monarch  shrined 

Within  such  canopy  as  this? 
The  birds  have  cradles  feather  lined; 

And  for  their  new  babes  princesses 
Have  sheets  of  lace  without  a  flaw, — 
His  pillow  was  a  wisp  of  straw! 

He  chose  this  way,  it  may  have  been, 
That  those  poor  mothers,  everywhere, 

Whose  babies  in  the  world's  great  inn 
Find  scanty  cradle-room  and  fare, 

As  did  the  babe  of  Bethlehem, 

May  find  somewhat  to  comfort  them. 

His  Birthday 
MAY  RILEY  SMITH 

18 


And  his  name  shall  be  called 
Prince  of  Peace. 

The  Christ-Child  lay  in  Bethlehem, 

And  the  Wise  Men  gave  Him  gold, 
And  Mary-Mother  she  hearkened  them 

As  they  prayed  in  the  cattle-fold: 
"Smile,  then  smile,  little  Prince  of  Earth, 

Smile  in  Thy  holy  sleep; 
Now  Thou  art  come,  for  want  and  dearth 
There  shall  be  plenty  and  light  and  mirth 

Through  lands  where  the  poor  folk  weep." 

But  Mary-Mother  was  still  and  pale 
And  she  raised  her  gold-ringed  head: 

"Then  why  have  I  heard  the  children  wail 

All  night  long  on  the  far-blown  gale 
While  my  own  Child  slept?"  she  said. 

(But  far  over  head  the  angels  sang; 

"  There  shall  be  peace!"  the  far  notes  rang.) 

The  Christ-Child  lay  in  Bethlehem 
And  the  censers  burned  for  Him 

That  the  Wise  Men  swung  on  a  silver  stem, 
And  prayed  while  the  smoke  rose  dim: 

"Sleep,  then  sleep,  little  Son  of  God, 
Sleep  while  the  whole  world  prays: 

All  of  the  world  shall  fear  thy  nod, 

Following  close  thy  staff  and  rod 

Praising  this  day  of  days." 
19 


But  Mary-Mother  turned  whispering 

There  by  the  manger-bed: 
"Then  why  do  I  hear  a  mocking  ring 
Of  voices  crying  and  questioning 

Through  the  scented  smoke?"  she  said. 
(But  high  over  head  the  angels  sang; 
"  There  shall  be  faith!"  the  sweet  notes  rang.) 

The  Christ-Child  lay  in  Bethlehem 

And  the  Wise  Men  gave  Him  myrrh 
And  Mary-Mother  she  hearkened  them 

As  they  prayed  by  the  heart  of  her; 
"Hush,  then  hush,  little  Prince  of  Peace, 

Hush,  take  Thy  holy  rest; 
Now  Thou  art  come  all  wars  shall  cease, 
Thou  who  hast  brought  all  strife  release 

Even  from  East  to  West!" 

But  Mary-Motner  she  veiled  her  head 

As  if  her  great  joys  were  lost: 
And  "Here  is  only  a  manger-bed, 
Then  why  do  I  hear  clashed  swords?"  she  said, 
"And  why  do  I  see  a  tide  of  red 

Over  the  whole  world  tossed?" 
(But  still  over  all  the  angels  sang: 
"There  shall  be  peace!'9  the  high  notes  rang!) 

A  Ballad  of  the  Wise  Men 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 
20 


And  opening  their  treasures 
they  offered  unto  him  gifts. 

I  am  Balthazar,  sovereign  where  the  Nile 
Winds  over  Egypt  by  the  palms  and  sands, 
Temples  and  sphinxes  waiting  Thy  commands 

Adown  the  ages  in  a  deathless  smile. 

Thee  would  our  priests  with  fire  and  bloodshed  style 
A  "God  of  Terrors,"  yet  the  mummies'  hands 
Held  fast  the  scarab  so  that  shadow-lands 

Of  death  might  know  Thou  didst  but  bide  the  while! 

Thus  for  Thy  Kingship  did  I  snatch  the  gold 
From  grim  Osiris'  brow,  that  night  the  Star 

For  which  Chaldea's  sages  pined  of  old 

Proclaimed  Thy  birth;    and  trusting  in  the  sign, 

Come  I  to  seek  Thee  on  the  hills  afar, 
To  yield  Fear's  broken  sovereignty  to  Thine! 

Behold  me — Gaspar  of  the  Isles  of  Greece — 
Before  Thy  feet  anointed!     Thou  didst  call 
Our  souls  to  dream  of  Thee  by  waterfall 

And  snow-strewn  mount  and  purple  vale  of  peace. 

Out  where  our  sea-flocks  comb  their  silver  fleece 
Against  a  thousand  isles  marmoreal 
We  raised  to  Thee  our  temple  columns  tall 

Where  sacrifice  and  psean  should  not  cease. 

What  though  the  Phidian  stone  or  ivory  heard 
The  cry  our  barren  hearts  sent  up  to  Thee, 

Yet  did  we  treasure  every  Delphic  word 

21 


And  ply  the  sibyls  in  Thine  augury. 
Such  was  our  homage  till  yon  pure  Star  stirred 
Before  me  bearing  incense  o'er  the  sea. 

They  crowned  me — Melchior — where  the  Ganges  rolls 
By  gilded  shrines  and  cities  to  the  sea, 
There  where  the  death-pyres  burn  eternally 

And  saints  and  sages  lacerate  their  souls. 

Through  scorn  of  love  and  hate  their  will  controls 
Earth's  rebel  senses;    naught  of  worth  can  be 
Save  full  absorption  in  the  life  of  Thee, 

Their  Lamp  consuming  o'er  the  deeps  and  shoals. 

Thou  dost  confound  the  dreaming  of  our  seers, 
Thou  who  in  human  guise,  not  flame,  wouldst  bring 

Our  world  Thy  message  of  its  precious  tears, 
Its  humblest  service  angel-winged  with  thought. 

So  hither  unto  Thee,  O  Saviour, — King, — 

And  Brother, — lo,  the  myrrh  adoring  brought! 

At  the  Manger's  Side 

THOMAS  WALSH 


He  that  will,  let  him  take 
the  water  of  life  freely. 

When  that  our  gentle  Lord  was  born 

And  cradled  in  the  hay 

There  rode  three  wise  men  from  the  east- 

22 


Three  rich  wise  men  were  they — 
All  in  the  starry  night  they  came 
Their  homage  gifts  to  pay. 

They  got  them  down  from  camel-back, 

The  cattle  shed  before, 

And  in  the  darkness  vainly  sought 

A  great  latch  on  the  door, 

"Ho!   this  is  strange,"  quoth  Balthazar, 

"Aye,  strange,"  quoth  Melchior. 

Quoth  Caspar,  "I  can  find  no  hasp; 
Well  hidden  is  the  lock"; 
"The  door,"  quoth  Melchior,  "is  stout 
And  fast,  our  skill  to  mock"; 
Quoth  Balthazar,  "The  little  King 
Might  wake,  we  dare  not  knock." 

The  three  wise  men  they  sat  them  down 
To  wait  for  morning  dawn, 
The  cunning  wards  of  that  old  door 
They  thought  and  marvelled  on; 
Quoth  they,  "No  gate  in  all  the  East 
Hath  bar-bolts  tighter  drawn." 

Anon  there  came  a  little  lad 
With  lambskins  for  the  King, 
He  had  no  key,  he  raised  no  latch, 
He  touched  no  hidden  spring, 
But  gently  pushed  the  silent  door 
And  open  it  gan  swing. 

23 


"A  miracle!   a  miracle!" 

Cried  out  the  wise  men  three; 

"A  little  child  hath  solved  the  locks 

That  could  not  opened  be." 

In  wonder  spake  the  shepherd  lad, 

"It  hath  no  locks,"  quoth  he. 

A  Ballad  of  Wise  Men 

GEORGE  M.  P.  BAIRD 


That  in  the  ages  to  come  he  might  show 
the  exceeding  riches  of  his  grace. 

Where  went  the  gifts  the  Magi  bore 

To  Bethlehem  Village  long  of  yore? 

As  they  rode  all  night  through  the  haunting  sands, 

There  were  whispering  voices  and  touching  hands: 

"Give  us  of  that  which  your  panniers  hold!" 

Then  they  who  rode  to  each  other  spoke: 

"They  have  followed  us  forth  because  of  our  gold — 

The  eager  clan  of  the  Faery  Folk!" 

And  the  Magi  answered  those  voices  in  air: 
"The  gifts  we  carry  we  may  not  share. 
The  myrrh  and  the  gems  and  the  gold  from  the  mine — 
These  are  all  for  One— for  a  Child  Divine." 
Oh,  then,  how  the  silver  laughters  ran 
Till  they  made  to  quiver  the  Guiding  Star: 
"We  will  visit,  ourselves,  this  Child  of  Man, 
We  will  ask  of  Him  when  ye're  passed  afar! 

24 


"All  that  He  hath  He  will  give  away — 

In  the  hands  of  the  world  a  treasure  will  lay, 

Treasure  so  vast,  so  more  than  gold, 

That  the  hands  of  the  world  will  scarcely  hold 

All  that  He  hath  for  them  in  store: 

We  have  no  souls,  that  treasure  to  share; 

He  will  give  us  the  lesser — the  glittering  ore!" 

Laughed  the  Faery  Folk,  unseen  in  air. 

Thus,  with  the  touch  of  asking  hands, 
The  Magi  rode  through  the  haunted  sands 
And  silently  followed  their  Guiding  Star. 
They  gave  their  gifts,  and  they  passed  afar. 
If  any  came  after,  there's  none  to  tell, 
And  where  went  their  gold  is  none  to  say. 
But  this  of  a  truth  we  know  full  well: 
"All  that  He  hath  He  will  give  away." 

The  Magi  and  the  Faery  Folk 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS 


And  the  power  of  the  Most  High 
shall  overshadow  thee. 


Methinks  the  Blessed  was  content,  her  journey  over 
past, 

Amid  the  drowsy,  wondering  kine  on  lowly  bed  to  lie: 

To  dream  in  pensive  thankfulness,  and  happy  days 
forecast, 

While  over  her  the  Star  of  Hope  waxed  brighter  in 

the  sky. 

25 


And  yet,  methinks  in  Bethlehem  her  spirit  had  been 

lone 
But  for  the  tender  new-born  joy  that  in  her  arms  she 

bore, — 
Ay,  even  though  with  gifts  of  gold  and  many  a  precious 

stone 
Great  kings  had  knelt  with  shepherd  folk  about  her 

stable  door. 

But  every  mortal  mother's  heart  knows  its  Gethsem- 

ane — 
That  lonelier  spot  whereto  no  star  the  light  of  hope 

may  bring — 

Yet  even  in  the  darkest  hour,  amidst  her  agony, 
Each  still  remembers  Bethlehem,  and  hears  the  angels 
sing. 

Mother  Mary 
FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 


But  there  were  standing  by  the  cross 
of  Jesus  his  mother  and  . 

Melchior,  Gaspar,  Balthazar, 
Great  gifts  they  bore  and  meet; 

White  linen  for  His  body  fair 
And  purple  for  His  feet; 

And  golden  things — the  joy  of  kings — 

And  myrrh  to  breathe  Him  sweet. 
26 


It  was  the  shepherd  Terish  spake, 

"Oh,  poor  the  gift  I  bring — 
A  little  cross  of  broken  twigs, 

A  hind's  gift  to  a  king — 
Yet,  haply,  He  may  smile  to  see 

And  know  my  offering." 

And  it  was  Mary  held  her  Son 

Full  softly  to  her  breast, 
"Great  gifts  and  sweet  are  at  Thy  feet 

And  wonders  king-possessed, 
O  little  Son,  take  Thou  the  one 

That  pleasures  Thee  the  best." 

It  was  the  Christ-Child  in  her  arms 
Who  turned  from  gaud  and  gold, 

Who  turned  from  wondrous  gifts  and  great, 
From  purple  woof  and  fold, 

And  to  His  breast  the  cross  He  pressed 
That  scarce  His  hands  could  hold. 

'Twas  king  and  shepherd  went  their  way — 

Great  wonder  tore  their  bliss; 
'Twas  Mary  clasped  her  little  Son 

Close,  close  to  feel  her  kiss, 
And  in  His  hold  the  cross  lay  cold 

Between  her  heart  and  His! 

The  Ballad  of  the  Cross 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

27 


And  a  sword  shall  pierce  through  thine  own  soul; 
that  thoughts  out  of  many  hearts  shall  be  revealed. 

Vines  branching  stilly 
Shade  the  open  door, 
In  the  house  of  Zion's  Lily 
Cleanly  and  poor. 
Oh,  brighter  than  wild  laurel 
The  Babe  bounds  in  her  hand, 
The  King,  who  for  apparel 
Hath  but  a  swaddling  band, 

And  sees  her  heavenlier  smiling  than  stars  in  His 
command ! 

Soon,  mystic  changes 
Part  Him  from  her  breast, 
Yet  there  awhile  He  ranges 
.Gardens  of  rest: 
Yea,  she  the  first  to  ponder 
Our  ransom  and  recall, 
Awhile  may  rock  Him  under 
Her  young  curls'  fall, 
Against  that  only  sinless  love-loyal  heart  of  all. 

What  shall  inure  Him 

Unto  the  deadly  dream, 

When  the  tetrarch  shall  abjure  Him, 

The  thief  blaspheme, 

And  scribe  and  soldier  jostle 

About  the  shameful  tree, 
28 


And  even  an  Apostle 
Demand  to  touch  and  see? 

But  she  hath  kissed  her  Flower  where  the  Wounds 
are  to  be. 

Nativity  Song 
LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY 


Behold,  this  child  is  set 
for  a  sign. 

"Nay,  but  He  is  so  helpless  and  so  sweet. 

Why,  it  is  nothing  more  than  if  I  pressed 

An  armful  of  white  roses  to  my  breast, 

That  only  stir  above  my  own  heart's  beat. 

Why  should  a  dream  I  dreamed  destroy  my  rest?19 

Yet  even  as  she  spake  she  felt  the  stir 

Of  wings  that  in  the  garden  passed  by  her. 

"He  is  so  small,  so  weak  against  my  heart, 
A  little  wounded  dove  were  strong  as  He. 
He  hath  no  other  need  than  need  of  me, 
Nor  any  life  from  my  own  life  apart. 
Why  should  I  dread  an  olden  prophecy?" 
Yet  even  as  she  spake,  she  felt,  like  flame, 
The  voice  that  in  the  garden  said  her  name. 

"As  lesser  mothers  are,  am  I  not  blest? 
He  is  no  other's  but  mine  own,  mine  own, 
No  King,  no  Prophet,  but  my  child  alone. 

29 


Asking  no  other  kingdom  than  my  breast. 
Let  me  be  glad  those  foolish  fears  are  done." 
Yet  even  as  she  spake  He  stirred  in  her  embrace, 
Feeling  her  tears,  her  tears — upon  His  face. 

The  Tears  of  Mary 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


Fear  not,  Mary:  of  his  kingdom 
there  shall  be  no  end! 

O  Mary,  in  thy  clear  young  eyes 
What  sorrow  came  at  His  first  cry? 
What  hint  of  how  He  was  to  die 

Disturbed  thee  in  the  calm  sunrise  .  .  . 
What  shadow  from  the  paling  sky 

Did  fall  across  thy  Paradise? 

Dream'st  thou  the  Garden,  and  the  Tree? 
Know  they  were  for  the  little  Child 
Whose  lips  against  thy  warm  breast  smiled? 

So  sweet,  that  body  close  to  thee, 
By  men's  rough  hands  to  be  defiled; 

So  frail  .  .  .  yet  waiting  Calvary! 

Stanzas  from  "The  Madonna  of  the  Carpenter  Shop" 

(Dagnan-Bougeret) 

RUTH  GUTHRIE  HARDING 

30 


Whosoever  shall  do  the  will  of  God,  the  same 
is  my  brother,  and  sister,  and  mother. 

Three  women  meet  beneath  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  in  Para 
dise;  one  has  given  up  her  birthright  of  motherhood  that 
she  might  give  her  life  entirely  to  the  work  of  healing;  the 
second  has  found  her  children  in  her  songs;  the  third  has 
never  been  sought,  and  has  had  to  content  herself  with 
caring  for  the  neglected  children  of  others. 

And  then,  on  still,  unhasting  feet 
One  came  to  them  with  greeting  brief. 
Her  smile  so  patient  and  so  sweet 
Was  sadder  than  a  rain  of  grief, 
And  as  they  looked  into  her  eyes 
Such  silence  fell  upon  the  three 
They  heard  the  songs  of  Paradise 
Beneath  the  Knowledge  Tree. 
"And  I—"  she  said— "a  child  I  bore— 
A  child  I  could  not  understand. 
I  watched  Him  wander  more  and  more 
Beyond  the  limits  of  my  land. 
His  love  was  never  less  toward  me, 
But  He  was  All,  and  I  but  one. 
He  passed  unto  Humanity, 
And  was  no  more  my  son." 

The  Childless 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

31 


And  his  father  and  mother  were  marveling 

at  the  things  which  were  spoken  concerning  him. 

After  the  Wise  Men  went,  and  the  strange  star 
Had  faded  out,  Joseph  the  father  sat 
Watching  the  sleeping  Mother  and  the  Babe, 
And  thinking  stern,  sweet  thoughts  the   long   night 
through. 

"Ah,  what  am  I,  that  God  has  chosen  me 
To  bear  this  blessed  burden,  to  endure 
Daily  the  presence  of  this  loveliness, 
To  guide  this  Glory  that  shall  guide  the  world? 

"Brawny  these  arms  to  win  Him  bread,  and  broad 
This  bosom  to  sustain  Her.     But  my  heart 
Quivers  in  lonely  pain  before  that  Beauty 
It  loves — and  serves — and  cannot  understand!" 

The  Vigil  of  Joseph 

ELSA  BARKER 


THE    YOUTH    OF   JESUS 


He  led  them  also  by  a  straight  way, 
that  they  might  go  to  a  city  of  habitation. 

Thou  wayfaring  Jesus,  a  pilgrim  and  stranger, 

Exiled  from  Heaven  by  love  at  Thy  birth, 
Exiled  again  from  Thy  rest  in  the  manger, 

A  fugitive  child  'mid  the  perils  of  earth, — 
Cheer  with  Thy  fellowship  all  who  are  weary, 

Wandering  far  from  the  land  that  they  love; 
Guide  every  heart  that  is  homeless  and  dreary, 

Safe  to  its  home  in  Thy  presence  above. 

The  Flight  into  Egypt 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


And  Joseph  arose  and  took  the  young  child 
and  his  mother  and  fled  into  Egypt. 

The  mighty  river  flows  as  when  Thine  eyes 
Thy  baby  eyes,  in  wonder  saw  it  flow. 
The  Pyramids  stand  there;    no  one  may  know 

Their  countless  years,  or  ancient  builders  wise; 

Thy  childish  gaze  was  caught  in  glad  surprise 
To  see  the  haughty  camels  come  and  go; 

The  ass  thy  mother  rode  still  ambles  slow; 
35 


Unmoved  by  centuries  the  country  lies. 

Up  from  the  calm,  the  peace,  the  mystic  land, 
Back  to  the  scene  of  conflict  and  of  strife, 
Thy  parents  journeyed  at  the  Lord's  command. 

A  touch  of  glory  rests  upon  the  place 

Which  gave  its  shelter  to  Thine  infant  grace, 
And  nourished  Thee  to  be  the  Life  of  Life. 

Out  of  Egypt  Have  I  Called  My  Son 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 


And  the  grace  of  God  was  upon  him. 

Could  every  time-worn  heart  but  see  Thee  once  again 
A  happy  human  child,  among  the  homes  of  men, 
The  age  of  doubt  would  pass, — the  vision  of  Thy  face 
Would  silently  restore  the  childhood  of  the  race. 

The  Nativity 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


That  it  might  be  fulfilled  which  was  spoken 

through  the  prophets,  that  he  should  be  called  a  Nazarene. 

In  Nazareth,  upon  its  southern  slope 
Of  springtime  hillside,  lying  in  the  sun 
With  fresh  grass  from  the  winter  hardly  won 

And  blossoms  that  begin  with  joy  to  ope — 

36 


The  lily  of  the  field,  in  heliotrope 

And  splendid  crimson,  such  as  Solomon 
In  glory  had  not — the  Angelic  One 

Brought  all  to  life,  with  those  great  words  of  hope. 

And  from  the  crest  of  that  fair  mountain  town 
Far  to  the  north,  the  height  the  Prophet  sings, 
The  dome  of  dazzling  snow,  the  country's  crown, 

The  splendid  majesty  of  Hermon  lies, 
The  joy  of  His  forefather  David's  eyes, 
White  as  the  herald  angel's  radiant  wings. 

Nazareth 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 


And  the  life  was  the  light  of  men. 

A  woman  sings  across  the  wild 
A  song  of  wonder  sweet, 
And  everywhere  her  little  Child 
Follows  her  gliding  feet. 

He  flutters  like  a  petal  white 
Along  the  roadway's  rim; 
When  He  is  tired,  at  latter-light, 
His  mother  carries  Him. 

Sometimes  a  little  silver  star 

Floats  softly  down  the  air, 

Past  mountains  where  the  pure  snows  are, 

And  sits  upon  His  hair. 
37 


Sometimes,  when  darkness  is  unfurled, 
Upon  her  breast  He  lies, 
And  all  the  dreams  of  all  the  world 
Flock  to  His  dreamy  eyes. 

The  Christ-Child 

AGNES  LEE 


One  of  these  little  ones. 


And  have  you  seen  my  little  Son 

A-passing  by  to-day? 
A  butterfly  with  golden  wings 

Has  lured  Him  far  away. 

Oh,  you  would  know  Him  by  His  eyes; 

Twin  pools  of  twilight  sweet, 
Oh,  you  would  know  Him  by  His  smile, 

And  by  His  little  feet. 

And  if  you  find  Him,  give  Him  drink, 

And  give  Him  of  your  bread, 
And  mother  Him  upon  your  breast, 

And  stroke  His  weary  head; 

And  should  a  thorn  have  bruised  His  hand, 

I  beg  you,  wash  the  stain; 
And  oh,  pray  lead  Him  to  my  hearth, 

And  to  my  arms  again. 
38 


For  I  would  place  Him  in  my  bed, 
And  close  His  tender  eyes, 

And  lay  my  heart  anear  His  heart, 
And  dream  of  Paradise. 


Mary's  Quest 

SCHARMEL   IRIS 


And  he  took  them  in  his  arms  and  blessed  them. 

Where  has  He  gone,  our  Playmate? 

We've  sought  Him  high  and  low 
Where  gray-green  olives  ripen, 

Where  haycocks  stand  a-row.  .  .  . 

WTe  saw  Him  passing  down  the  street 
An  hour  or  so  ago! 

Where  has  He  gone,  our  Comrade 

Who  took  us  by  the  hand 
And  taught  us  to  build  houses 

With  little  heaps  of  sand? 

He  has  gone  forth  to  sojourn 
In  a  far  foreign  land! 

Nay,  but  He  would  not  leave  us 
Who  took  us  on  His  knee, 

39 


And  set  our  fancies  sailing 
Like  ships  upon  the  sea.  .  .  . 

We  think  that  He  will  never  come 
Again  to  Galilee! 

The  Playmate 

HARRY  KEMP 


And  his  name  shall  be  called  Counsellor. 

A  little  Child,  a  Joy-of-heart,  with  eyes 
Unsearchable,  he  grew  in  Nazareth, 

His  daily  speech  so  innocently  wise 

That  all  the  town  went  telling:  "Jesus  saith." 

At  Nazareth 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


As  the  mountains  are  round  about  Jerusalem, 
so  Jehovah  is  round  about  his  people! 

I  stood  by  the  Holy  City 

Without  the  Damascus  Gate, 
While  the  wind  blew  soft  from  the  distant  sea, 

And  the  day  was  wearing  late, 
And  swept  its  wide  horizon 

With  reverent  lingering  gaze 
From  the  rolling  uplands  of  the  west 

That  slope  a  hundred  ways, 
40 


To  Olivet's  gray  terraces 

By  Kedron's  bed  that  rise, 
Upon  whose  crest  the  Crucified 

Was  lost  to  mortal  eyes; 
And,  far  beyond,  to  the  tawny  line 

Where  the  sun  seemed  still  to  fall — 
So  bright  the  hue  against  the  blue, 

Of  Moab's  mountain  wall; 
And  north  to  the  hills  of  Benjamin, 

Whose  springs  are  flowing  yet, 
Ramah,  and  sacred  Mizpah, 
Its  dome  above  them  set; 
And  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Psalmist 

Had  meaning  before  unknown: 
As  the  mountains  round  Jerusalem 

The  Lord  is  round  His  own. 

At  Jerusalem 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR 


They  found  him  in  the  temple, 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  the  teachers, 
asking  them  questions. 

The  young  child,  Christ,  is  straight  and  wise 
And  asks  questions  of  the  old  men,  questions 
Found  under  running  water  for  all  children, 
And  found  under  shadows  thrown  on  still  waters 
By  tall  trees  looking  downwards,  old  and  gnarled, 
Found  to  the  eyes  of  children  alone,  untold, 

41 


Singing  a  low  song  in  the  loneliness. 

And  the  young  child,  Christ,  goes  asking 

And  the  old  men  answer  nothing  and  only  know  love 

For  the  young  child,  Christ,  straight  and  wise. 

Child 

CARL  SANDBURG 


Knew  ye  not  that  I  must  be 
in  my  Father's  house? 

What  is  it  forces  men  to  overrun 

Their  safe  and  common  paths,  to  meet  the  frown 
Of  those  they  reverence,  jeered  by  every  clown, 

Knowing  no  rest  till  some  strange  task  is  done, 

Some  luring  secret  from  the  darkness  won? 
What  is  it  makes  life,  love,  and  fair  renown 
As  naught — its  far-off  prize  the  martyr's  crown? 

'Tis  God's  great  business,  claiming  thus  His  son. 

So  was  it  with  the  Boy  Divine.     Apart 

From  those  calm  travellers  on  their  homeward  way, 

He  needs  must  utter  from  His  questioning  heart 
The  burden  that  already  on  it  lay; 

And  she  who  gently  drew  Him  from  the  spot 

Trembled,  methinks,  at  that  presaging  "Wist  ye  not?" 

My  Father's  Business 

SARAH  J.  DAY 
42 


So  many  kinds  of  voices  in  the  world  .  .  . 
Christ  reconciling  the  world  unto  himself. 

Little  town  of  Nazareth 
On  the  hillsides  Galilean, 
Oh,  your  name  is  like  a  poean 

Rising  over  dole  and  death! 

I  can  see  your  domes  and  towers 
Dazzle  underneath  the  noon, 

And  your  drowsy  poppy-flowers 
In  the  breezes  sway  and  swoon. 

I  can  see  your  olives  quiver 
With  their  opalescent  sheen, 

Like  the  ripples  of  a  river 

Gliding  grassy  banks  between. 

I  can  see  your  graceful  daughters 
Poise  their  slim-necked  drinking-jars, 

With  their  hair  like  twilight  waters, 
And  their  eyes  like  Syrian  stars. 

I  can  see  your  narrow  byways 
Where  the  folk  go  sandal-shod, — 

All  your  dim  bazaars  and  highways, 
Every  path  that  once  He  trod. 

And  I  know  that  waking,  sleeping, 

Until  time  has  ceased  to  be, 
You  will  hold  fast  in  your  keeping 

His  beloved  memory! 
43 


Little  town  of  Nazareth 
On  the  hillsides  Galilean, 
Oh,  your  name  is  like  a  pcean 

Rising  over  dole  and  death! 


Easter  at  Nazareth 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


And  he  was  subject  unto  them. 

So  sweetly  through  that  humble  home 
The  rippling  laughter  went 

That  Mary  felt  the  world's  blue  dome 
Too  small  for  her  content. 

And  careful  Joseph,  while  he  held 

The  boy  in  grave  caress, 
Wist  not  what  tender  thrill  dispelled 

His  workday  weariness. 

The  crown  set  softly,  only  rings 

Of  baby  hair  agleam 
With  lustres  dropt  from  angels'  wings 

And  starlight  down  a  dream. 

The  thorn-tree  was  a  seedling  still, 
And  with  laughter's  frolic  chime 
The  Christ-child  did  his  father's  will, 

As  when,  of  elder  time, 
44 


A  ruddy  lad  in  Bethlehem 

Was  keeping  sheep  and  played 

Blithe  music  on  his  harp  to  them 
Before  the  psalms  were  made. 

Murillo's  "Holy  Family  of  the  Little  Bird" 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


And  Jesus  advanced 
in  wisdom  and  stature. 

I  know,  Lord,  Thou  hast  sent  Him 
Thou  art  so  good  to  me! — 
But  Thou  hast  only  lent  Him, 
His  heart's  for  Thee!— 

I  dared — Thy  poor  handmaiden — 
Not  ask  a  prophet-child: 
Only  a  boy-babe  laden 
For  earth — and  mild. 

But  this  one  Thou  hast  given 
Seems  not  for  earth — or  me! 
His  lips  flame  truth  from  heaven, 
And  vanity 

Seem  all  my  thoughts  and  prayers 
When  He  but  speaks  Thy  law; 
Out  of  my  heart  the  tares 
Are  torn  by  awe! 

45 


I  cannot  look  upon  Him, 
So  strangely  burn  His  eyes — 
Hath  not  some  grieving  drawn  Him 
From  Paradise? 

For  Thee,  for  Thee  I'd  live,  Lord! 
Yet  oft  I  almost  fall 
Before  Him — Oh,  forgive,  Lord, 
My  sinful  thrall! 

But  e'en  when  He  was  nursing, 
A  baby  at  my  breast, 
It  seemed  He  was  dispersing 
The  world's  unrest. 

Thou  badst  me  call  Him  "Jesus," 
And  from  our  heavy  sin 
I  know  He  shall  release  us, 
From  Sheol  win. 

But,  Lord,  forgive!  the  yearning 
That  He  may  sometimes  be 
Like  other  children,  learning 
Beside  my  knee, 

Or  playing,  prattling,  seeking 
For  help — comes  to  my  heart  .  .  . 
Oh  sinful,  Lord,  I'm  speaking- 
How  good  Thou  art! 

Mary  at  Nazareth 

GALE  YOUNG  RICE 

46 


And  the  government  shall  be 
upon  his  shoulder. 

When,  for  the  last  time  from  His  mother's  home 

The  Son  went  forth,  foreseeing  perfectly 
What  doom  would  happen,  and  what  things  would 

come, 

Was  there  upon  His  lips  no  stifled  sigh 
For  happy  hours  that  should  return  no  more, 

Long  days  among  the  lilies,  pure  delights 
Of  wanderings  by  Galilee's  fair  shore, 

And  converse  with  His  friends  on  starry  nights? 
Yet  brave  He  stepped  into  the  setting  sun 
With    this    one    word,    "Father,    Thy    will    be 
done!" 

With  a  low  voice  the  stooping  olive  trees 

Whispered  to  Him  of  His  Gethsemane; 
The  cruel  thorn-bush,  clinging  to  His  knees, 

Proclaimed,  "I  shall  be  made  a  crown  for  Thee!" 
And,  looking  back,  His  eyes  made  dim  with  loss, 

He  saw  the  lintel  of  the  cottage  grow 
In  shape  against  the  sunset,  like  a  cross, 

And  knew  He  had  not  very  far  to  go. 

Yet  brave  He  stepped  into  the  setting  sun, 
Still  saying  this  one  word,  "Thy  will  be  done!" 

So,  when  the  last  time,  from  His  mother's  home 
The  Son  passed  out,  no  choir  of  angels  came, 

As  long  before  at  Bethlehem  they  had  come, 
To  comfort  Him  upon  the  road  of  shame. 

47 


Alone  He  went,  and  stopped  a  little  space, 

As  one  o'erburdened,  stopped  to  look  again 
Upon  His  mother's  pleading  form  and  face, 

And  wept  for  her,  that  she  should  know  this  pain. 
Then,  silently,  He  faced  the  setting  sun, 
And  said,  "Oh,  Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done!" 

Mother  and  Son 

W.  J.  DAWSON 


For  even  his  brethren 
did  not  believe  on  him. 

Joses,  the  brother  of  Jesus,  plodded  from  day  to  day 
With  never  a  vision  within  him  to  glorify  his  clay; 
Joses,  the  brother  of  Jesus,  was  one  with  the  heavy 

clod, 
But  Christ  was  the  soul  of  rapture,  and  soared,  like  a 

lark,  with  God. 

Joses,  the  brother  of  Jesus,  was  only  a  worker  in  wood, 
And  he  never  could   see  the  glory   that   Jesus,    his 

brother,  could. 
"Why  stays  he  not  in  the  workshop?"  he  often  used 

to  complain, 
"Sawing  the  Lebanon  cedar,  imparting  to  woods  their 

stain? 
Why  must  he  go  thus  roaming,  forsaking  my  father's 

trade, 
While  hammers  are  busily  sounding,  and  there  is  gain 

to  be  made?" 

48 


Thus  ran  the  mind  of  Joses,  apt  with  plummet  and 

rule, 
And  deeming  whoever  surpassed  him  either  a  knave 

or  a  fool, — 
For  he  never  walked  with  the  prophets  in  God's  great 

garden  of  bliss — 
And  of  all  mistakes  of  the  ages,  the  saddest,  methinks, 

was  this 
To  have  such  a  brother  as  Jesus,  to  speak  with  him 

day  by  day, 
But  never  to  catch  the  vision  which  glorified  his  clay. 

Joses,  the  Brother  of  Jesus 

HARRY  KEMP 


Is  not  this  the  carpenter's  son  ? 

I  wish  I  had  been  His  apprentice,  to  see  Him  each 

morning  at  seven, 
As  He  tossed  His  gray  tunic  far  from  Him,  the  Master 

of  earth  and  of  heaven. 
When  He  lifted  the  lid  of  His  work  chest  and  opened 

His  carpenter's  kit 
And  looked  at  His  chisels  and  augers,  and  took  the 

bright  tools  out  of  it 
While  He  gazed  at  the  rising  sun  tinting  the  dew  on 

the  opening  flowers 
And  smiled  as  He  thought  of  His  Father,  whose  love 

floods  this  planet  of  ours, 
49 


When  He  fastened  His  apron  about  Him,  and  put  on 

His  working-man's  cap, 
And  grasped  the  smooth  hasp  of  the  hammer,  to  give 

the  bent  woodwork  a  tap, 
Saying,  "  Lad,  let  me  finish  this  ox  yoke.     The  farmer 

must  put  in  his  crop." 
O,  I  wish  I  had  been  His  apprentice  and  worked  in 

the  Nazareth  shop! 


Some  wish  they  had  been  on  Mount  Tabor,  to  hearken 

unto  His  high  speech 
When  the  quick  and  the  dead  were  beside  Him,  He 

holding  communion  with  each. 
Some  wish  they  had  heard  the  soft  accents  that  stilled 

the  wee  children's  alarms, 
W7hen  He  won  the  sweet  babes  from  their  mothers  and 

folded  them  fast  in  His  arms. 
Some  wish  they  had  stood  by  the  Jordan  when  holy 

John  greeted  Him  there 
And  seen  the  white  dove  of  the  Spirit  fly  down  o'er 

the  path  of  His  prayer. 
Some  wish  they  had  seen  the  Redeemer  when  into  the 

basin  He  poured 
The  water,  and,  girt  with  a  towel,  the  servant  of  all 

was  the  Lord. 
But  for  me,  if  I  had  the  choosing,  O  this  would  them 

all  overtop, 
To  work  all  day  steady  beside  Him,  of  old  in  the 

Nazareth  shop. 

50 


These  heavenly  wonders  would  fright  me,  I  cannot 

approach  to  them  yet. 
But,  O,  to  have  seen  Him,  when  toiling,  His  forehead 

all  jeweled  with  sweat, 
To  hear  Him  say  softly,  "My  helper,  now  bring  me 

the  level  and  rule." 
To  hear  Him  bend  over  and  teach  me  the  use  of  the 

artisan's  tool. 
To  hear  Him  say,  "This  is  a  sheep  gate,  to  keep  in 

the  wandering  flock," 
Or,  "This  is  stout  oaken  house  sill.      I  hope  it  will 

rest  on  a  rock." 
And  sometimes  His  mother  might  bring  us  our  meal 

in  the  midsummer  heat, 
Outspread  it  so  simply  before  us,  and  bid  us  sit  down 

and  eat. 
Then  with  both  of  us  silent  before  Him,  the  blessed 

Messiah  would  stop 
To  say  grace,  and  a  tremulous  glory  would  fill  the 

Nazareth  shop. 

The  Nazareth  Shop 

ROBERT  MC!NTYRE 


The  measure  of  the  stature 
of  the  fullness  of  Christ! 

And  yet  the  daily  task  is  sacred  too, 
And  he  who  serves  the  Highest  will  not  spurn 
The  humbler  service,  nor  unloving  turn 

From  claims  of  human  kinship.     No  less  true 
51 


A  mastery  of  our  wills  is  that  which  through 
Apprenticeship  to  other  wills  we  learn, 
Not  servile,  yet  submissive  to  discern 

God's  bidding  when  a  lowlier  bids  to  do. 

So  through  those  silent  unrecorded  years 
The  matchless  life  grew  slowly  into  power, 

Brooding  its  mystery  of  hopes  and  fears 
And  moving  ever  forward  toward  the  hour 

When  He  who  first  had  served  at  Nazareth 

Life's  Lord  became,  obedient  unto  Death. 

Was  Subject  Unto  Them 

SARAH  J.  DAY 


A  workman  that  needeth  not  to  be  ashamed, 
handling  aright  the  word  of  truth. 

The  altar  flame  was  white,  the  flowers  red, 

Through  the  hushed  chancel,  from  the  altar  side, 

Came  the  priest's  prayer  before  the  Living  Bread, 
He  prayed,  "O  Victim,  opening  wide — " 

Rough  scaffolding  outside  a  shadow  threw 
On  the  tall  window,  veiled  to  hide  the  sun, 

Crossbeams  and  bars,  a  tracery  that  grew 
To  a  mute  symbol  of  the  day  begun. 

For,  climbing,  pausing,  noiseless  as  a  thought, 
Black  on  the  amber  curtain's  narrow  span, 

Among  the  bars  and  beams  his  hands  had  wrought, 
There  rose  and  crossed  the  shadow  of  a  man. 

52 


A  man — a  carpenter.    What  breath  of  awe 
Swept  cold  across  our  prayer-wrapt  ecstasy, 

In  place  of  lights  and  kneeling  priest,  we  saw 
A  workman's  home  in  far-off  Galilee. 

Thy  Church,  Thy  brother  workman !— This  we  know- 
(Help  us,  O  Christ,  the  gulf  is  deep  and  wide!) 

We  kneel  in  peace  where  the  tall  candles  glow, 
Thy  brother  workmen  face  the  world — outside. 

The  Shadow 

ELIZABETH  CARTER 


Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of  Nazareth? 
Philip  saith  unto  him,  Come  and  see. 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Set  where  the  paths  lead  up  from  the  sea 

That  like  the  chords  of  a  mighty  lyre 

Dirges  over  the  rocks  of  Tyre, 

Mourns  where  the  piers  of  Sidon  shone, 

And  the  battlements  of  Ascalon. 

They  have  waned  as  the  sunset  wanes; 

Little  more  than  a  name  remains; 

But  more  than  a  name  we  hold  it, — we, — 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Ah,  what  a  golden  harmony 

The  dawn  seems,  flooding  its  bright  white  walls! 

And,  when  the  violet  twilight  falls, 
53 


What  vast  processional  of  stars 

Pageants  over  its  stilled  bazaars! 

And  when  the  full  moon  touches  the  height 

Of  Tabor,  a  torch  of  brilliant  light, 

Never  was  sight  more  fair  to  see; — 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Strumming  a  desert  melody, 

The  Bedouin  minstrel  trolls  in  the  street; 

At  the  Well  of  the  Virgin  the  maidens  meet; 

The  cactus-hedges  crimson  to  flower, 

The  olives  silver  hour  by  hour 

As  through  their  branches  the  south  wind  steals; 

A  clear  bell  peals,  and  a  vulture  wheels 

Over  the  crest  where  the  wild  crags  be; — 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

At  the  sound  of  the  words  how  memory 

Kindles  as  earth  does  under  the  spring, 

Till  the  dead  days  rise  for  our  visioning; 

And  out  of  them  one  compassionate  face 

Beams  with  a  more  than  mortal  grace; 

Out  of  them  one  inspiring  voice 

Cries  in  the  ears  of  the  world,  "Rejoice!" 

And  ever  a  beacon  of  hope  shall  be 

Nazareth  town  in  Galilee! 

Nazareth  Town 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 
54 


And  his  mother  kept  all  these  sayings 
in  her  heart. 

Mary  sat  in  the  corner  dreaming, 

Dim  was  the  room  and  low, 
While  in  the  dusk  the  saw  went  screaming 

To  and  fro. 

Jesus  and  Joseph  toiled  together, 

Mary  was  watching  them, 
Thinking  of  Kings  in  the  wintry  weather 

At  Bethlehem. 

Mary  sat  in  the  corner  thinking, 

Jesus  had  grown  a  man; 
One  by  one  her  hopes  were  sinking 

As  the  years  ran. 

Jesus  and  Joseph  toiled  together, 

Mary's  thoughts  were  far — 
Angels  sang  in  the  wintry  weather 

Under  a  star. 

Mary  sat  in  the  corner  weeping, 

Bitter  and  hot  her  tears — 
Little  faith  were  the  angels  keeping 

All  the  years. 

In  the  Carpenter's  Shop 

SARA  TEASDALE 

55 


He  was  in  the  world, 

and  the  world  knew  him  not  .  .  . 

The  summer  dawn  came  over-soon, 
The  earth  was  like  hot  iron  at  noon 

In  Nazareth; 

There  fell  no  rain  to  ease  the  heat, 
And  dusk  drew  on  with  tired  feet 

And  stifled  breath. 

The  shop  was  low  and  hot  and  square, 
And  fresh-cut  wood  made  sharp  the  air, 

While  all  day  long 

The  saw  went  tearing  through  the  oak 
That  moaned  as  tho'  the  tree's  heart  broke 

Beneath  its  wrong. 

The  narrow  street  was  full  of  cries, 
Of  bickering  and  snarling  lies 

In  many  keys — 

The  tongues  of  Egypt  and  of  Rome 
And  lands  beyond  the  shifting  foam 

Of  windy  seas. 

Sometimes  a  ruler  riding  fast 

Scattered  the  dark  crowds  as  he  passed, 

And  drove  them  close 
In  doorways,  drawing  broken  breath 
Lest  they  be  trampled  to  their  death 

Where  the  dust  rose. 
56 


There  in  the  gathering  night  and  noise 
A  group  of  Galilean  boys 

Crowding  to  see 

Gray  Joseph  toiling  with  his  son, 
Saw  Jesus,  when  the  task  was  done, 

Turn  wearily. 

He  passed  them  by  with  hurried  tread 
Silently,  nor  raised  his  head, 

He  who  looked  up 
Drinking  all  beauty  from  his  birth 
Out  of  the  heaven  and  the  earth 

As  from  a  cup. 

And  Mary,  who  was  growing  old, 
Knew  that  the  pottage  would  be  cold 

When  he  returned; 
He  hungered  only  for  the  night, 
And  westward,  bending  sharp  and  bright, 

The  thin  moon  burned. 

He  reached  the  open  western  gate 
Where  whining  halt  and  leper  wait, 

And  came  at  last 
To  the  blue  desert,  where  the  deep 
Great  seas  of  twilight  lay  asleep, 

Windless  and  vast. 

With  shining  eyes  the  stars  awoke, 

The  dew  lay  heavy  on  his  cloak, 
57 


The  world  was  dim; 
And  in  the  stillness  he  could  hear 
His  secret  thoughts  draw  very  near 

And  call  to  him. 

Faint  voices  lifted  shrill  with  pain 
And  multitudinous  as  rain; 

From  all  the  lands 
And  all  the  villages  thereof 
Men  crying  for  the  gift  of  love 

With  outstretched  hands. 

Voices  that  called  with  ceaseless  crying 
The  broken  and  the  blind,  the  dying, 

And  those  grown  dumb 
Beneath  oppression,  and  he  heard 
Upon  their  lips  the  single  word, 

"Come!" 

Their  cries  engulfed  him  like  the  night, 
The  moon  put  out  her  placid  light 

And  black  and  low 
Nearer  the  heavy  thunder  drew, 
Hushing  the1  voices  .  .  .  yet  he  knew 

That  he  would  go. 


A  quick-spun  thread  of  lightning  burns, 

And  for  a  flash  the  day  returns — 
58 


He  only  hears 

Joseph,  an  old  man  bent  and  white, 
Toiling  along  from  morn  till  night 

Through  all  the  years. 

Swift  clouds  make  all  the  heavens  blind, 
A  storm  is  running  on  the  wind — 

He  only  sees 

How  Mary  will  stretch  out  her  hands 
Sobbing,  who  never  understands 

Voices  like  these. 

The  Carpenter's  Son 

SARA  TEASDALE 


THE    MINISTRY   OF 
JESUS 


Thou  art  my  beloved  Son: 
in  thee  I  am  well  pleased. 

Erect  in  youthful  grace  and  radiant 

With  spirit  forces,  all  imparadised 
In  a  divine  compassion,  down  the  slant 

Of  these  remembering  hills  He  came,  the  Christ. 

By  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


Lo,  the  world  is  gone  after  him! 

At  last  the  very  land  whose  breath  he  breathed, 
The  very  hills  his  bruised  feet  did  climb! 
This  is  his  Olivet;    on  this  Mount  he  stood, 
As  I  do  now,  and  with  this  same  surprise 
Straight  down  into  the  startling  blue  he  gazed 
Of  the  fair,  turquoise  mid-sea  of  the  plain. 
That  long,  straight,  misty,  dream-like,  violet  wall 
Of  Moab — lo,  how  close  it  looms!    The  same 
Quick  human  wonder  struck  his  holy  vision. 
About  these  feet  the  flowers  he  knew  so  well. 
Back  where  the  city's  shadow  slowly  climbs 
There  is  a  wood  of  Olives  gaunt  and  gray 
And  centuries  old;    it  holds  the  name  it  bore 

That  night  of  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

63 


I  tell  you  when  I  looked  upon  these  fields 
And  stony  valleys, — through  the  purple  veil 
Of  twilight,  or  what  time  the  Orient  sun 
Made  shining  jewels  of  the  barren  rocks, — 
Something  within  me  trembled;   for  I  said: 
This  picture  once  was  mirrored  in  his  eyes; 
This  sky,  that  lake,  those  hills,  this  loveliness, 
To  him  familiar  were;   this  is  the  way 
To  Bethany;  the  red  anemones 
Along  yon  wandering  path  mark  the  steep  road 
To  green-embowered  Jordan.     All  is  his: 
These  leprous  outcasts  pleading  piteously; 
This  troubled  country, — troubled  then  as  now, 
And  wild  and  bloody, — this  is  his  own  land. 
On  such  a  day,  girdled  by  these  same  hills, 
Prest  by  his  dark-browed,  sullen,  Orient  crowd, 
On  yonder  mount,  spotted  with  crimson  blooms, 
He  closed  his  eyes,  in  that  dark  tragedy 
Which  mortal  spirit  never  dared  to  sound. 
O  God!    I  saw  those  eyes  in  every  throng. 

Part  of  a  poem  entitled,  In  Palestine 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


Toward  the  sea,  beyond  the  Jordan, 
Galilee  of  the  Gentiles. 

Bright  'neath  the  Syrian  sun,  dim  'neath  the  Syrian 

star, 
Thus  lieth  Galilee's  sea,  sapphirine  lake  Gennesar; 

64 


Girdled  by  mountains  that  range  purple  and  proud 

to  their  crests, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  dreams, — glamour  of  eld, — on 

their  breasts. 

Just  one  white  glint  of  a  sail  dotting  the  brooding 

expanse; 
Beaches  that  sparkle  and  gleam,  ripples  that  darkle 

and  dance; 

Grandeur  and  beauty  and  peace  welded  year-long  into 

one, 
Under  the  Syrian  star,  under  the  Syrian  sun! 

And  over  all  and  through  all  memories  sweet  of  His 

name, 
Kindling  the  past  with  their  light,  touching  the  future 

with  flame! 

Gennesar 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


And  straightway  the  Spirit 

driveth  him  forth  into  the  wilderness. 

Up  from  the  Jordan  straight  His  way  He  took 
To  that  lone  wilderness,  where  rocks  are  hurled, 
And  strewn,  and  piled, — as  if  the  ancient  world 

In  strong  convulsions  seethed  and  writhed  and  shook, 

65 


Which  heaved  the  valleys  up,  and  sunk  each  brook, 
And  flung  the  molten  rock  like  ribbons  curled 
In  mists  of  gray  around  the  mountains  whirled: — 

A  grim  land,  of  a  fierce,  forbidding  look. 

The  wild  beasts  haunt  its  barren  stony  heights, 
And  wilder  visions  came  to  tempt  Him  there; 
For  forty  days  and  forty  weary  nights, 

Alone  He  faced  His  mortal  self  and  sin, 
Chaos  without,  and  chaos  reigned  within, 
Subdued  and  conquered  by  the  might  of  prayer. 

The  Wilderness 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 


And  Jesus  went  about  in  all  Galilee, 
preaching  the  gospel  of  the  kingdom. 

Should  not  the  glowing  lilies  of  the  field 

With  keener  splendor  mark  His  footprints  yet 

— Prints  of  the  gentle  feet  whose  passing  healed 
All  blight  from  Tabor  unto  Olivet? 

In  His  Steps 
KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


The  multitude  welcomed  him, 
for  they  were  all  waiting  for  him. 

Where  the  patient  oxen  were,  by  the  ass's  stall, 
Watching  my  Lord's  manger  knelt  the  waking  cattle  all; 
'Twas  a  little  country  maid  vigil  by  Him  kept — 

All  among  the  country  things  my  good  Lord  slept. 

66 


Fair  was  Rome  the  city  on  that  early  Christmas  morn, 
Yet  among  the  country-folk  was  my  Lord  born! 

Country-lads  that  followed  Him,  blithe  they  were  and 

kind, 

It  was  only  city  folk  were  hard  to  Him  and  blind: 
Ay,  He  told  of  lilies,  and  of  grain  and  grass  that  grew, 
Fair  things  of  the  summer  fields  my  good  Lord  knew, 
By  the  hedgerows'  flowering  there  He  laid  His  head — 
It  was  in  the  country  that  my  Lord  was  bred. 

When  the  cross  weighed  down  on  Him,  on  the  grievous 

road, 

'Twas  a  kindly  countryman  raised  my  good  Lord's  load; 
Peasant-girls  of  Galilee,  folk  of  Nazareth 
These  were  fain  to  follow  him  down  the  ways  of  death — 
Yea,  beyond  a  city  wall,  underneath  the  sky, 
Out  in  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  die. 

When  He  rose  to  Heaven  on  that  white  Ascension  day 
Last  from  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  pass  away; 
Rows  of  golden  seraphim  watched  where  He  should 

dwell, 

Yet  it  was  the  country-folk  had  my  Lord's  farewell: 
Out  above  the  flowered  hill,  from  the  mossy  grass, 
Up  from  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  pass. 

Where  the  jewelled  minsters  are,  where  the  censers 
sway, 

There  they  kneel  to  Christ  the  Lord  on  this  His  bearing- 
day: 


But  I  shall  stay  to  greet  Him  where  the  bonny  fields 
begin, 

Like  the  fields  that  once  my  good  Lord  wandered  in, 

Where  His  thorn-tree  flowered  once,  where  His  spar 
rows  soared, 

In  the  open  country  of  my  good  Lord! 

A  Country  Carol 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 


What  think  ye  of  the  Christ? 

Comes  any  good  from  Nazareth? 

The  scornful  challenge  as  of  old 
Is  flung  on  many  a  jeering  breath 

From  cloistered  cells  and  marts  of  gold. 

Comes  any  good  from  Nazareth? 

Behold,  the  mighty  Nazarene, 
The  Lord  of  life,  the  Lord  of  death, 

Through  warring  ages  walks  serene. 

One  touch  upon  his  garment's  fringe 
Still  heals  the  hurt  of  bitter  years. 

Before  Him  yet  the  demons  cringe, 
He  gives  the  wine  of  joy  for  tears. 

O  city  of  the  Carpenter, 

Upon  the  hill  slope  old  and  gray, 

The  world  amid  its  pain  and  stir 
Turns  yearning  eyes  on  thee  to-day. 

68 


For  He  who  dwelt  in  Nazareth, 

And  wrought  with  toil  of  hand  and  brain, 
Alone  gives  victory  to  faith 

Until  the  day  He  come  again. 

From  Nazareth 
MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 


He  opened  his  mouth  and 
taught  them,  saying — 

An  upland  plain,  with  sandy  soil  and  bare; 

Tall  tufts  of  grass  start  from  the  barren  ground 
And  branching  bushes;   scattered  all  around 

Are  jagged  rocks  to  form  a  shelter  where 

The  foxes  still  have  holes  and  make  their  lair; 
While  birds  of  prey  up  in  the  still  profound 
Of  lambent  sky  are  circling  o'er  the  mound 

Twin-crested,  basking  in  the  spring-time  air. 

It  was  upon  that  sun-crowned  little  hill 
Beneath  the  Syrian  sky  the  Master  spoke 
Such  blessed  words  that  they  are  living  still; 

"I  have  compassion  on  the  multitude;" 

And  while  He  blessed  and  gave  them  mortal  food 
The  everlasting  bread  for  them  He  broke. 

The  Mount  of  Beatitudes 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 

69 


And  he  spoke  also  this  parable  unto  certain 
who  trusted  in  themselves  that  they  were  righteous. 

Two  men  went  up  into  God's  place  to  pray, 
The  one  a  Pharisee.     He  stood  apart. 
Evening  in  flight  had  dropped  immortal  flowers 
Of  sunset  bloom.     The  quiet  city  lay 
Like  a  pale  gem  beneath  a  night  of  stars, 
And  no  sound  rose. 

Besought  the  Pharisee, 
Beating  his  head  upon  the  marble  wall, 
"God,  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  this  bitterness; 
I  thank  Thee  that,  in  anguish,  I  am  lift 
Above  my  fellows,  that  Thou  choosest  me 
For  throes  that  rend  no  other,  that  Thou  givest 
An  awful  and  peculiar  agony 
Such  as  One  only  bore.     I  thank  Thee,  God!" 
Then  as  he  prayed,  he  listened  to  the  sobs 
Heaving  up  from  his  soul,  counted  the  tears 
That  burned  upon  his  face,  and  held  his  woe 
Supreme ! 

The  other  knelt,  a  Publican, 
In  sober  dress  and  common  attitude. 
He  prayed,  "Ah,  stern  Jehovah,  Thou  dost  take 
My  self-belief,  my  courage  and  my  joy, 
Even  mine  inmost  treasure,  secret  love! 
I  bow  to  Thy  decree.     Mayhap  Thy  sword 
Smites  with  like  heaviness  this  desolate  man 
Beside  me.     We  are  brothers  in  despair. 
Am  I  then  isolate  before  Thy  wrath? 

70 


Am  I  then  all  alone  in  agony? 
Behold,  Thy  pitiless,  ironic  word 
Brands  us  alike,  the  mighty  Pharisee 
And  the  poor  blinded,  weeping  Publican!" 

The  Pharisee 
DOROTHY  LANDERS  BEALL 


But  while  he  was  yet  afar  off, 

his  father  saw  him,  and  was  moved  with  compassion. 

Here  feast  I  at  my  Father's  board, 
Who  starved  among  the  swine; 

For  me  must  every  foot  be  fleet 
And  every  lamp  must  shine; 

For  me  the  merry  music  sounds, 
The  dancers  dip  and  twine. 

My  heart  beats  fast  against  my  robe, 
The  best  robe,  soft  and  red; 

With  sobbing  breath  and  tightening  throat 
And  tears  in  rapture  shed, 

I  feel  His  ring  upon  my  hand, 
His  blessings  on  my  head. 

Ah,  bitter  was  the  way,  and  oft 
My  blood  my  path  would  trace; 

And  guilt  and  grief  and  stabbing  shame 
With  all  my  steps  kept  pace; 

And  yet  I  famished  not  for  bread 

So  sore  as  for  His  face. 
71 


The  road  seemed  endless.     On  I  fared, 
Wresting  each  mile  from  death; 

Then  such  an  awe  upon  me  fell 
I  scarce  could  draw  my  breath; 

My  spirit  felt  His  coming  as 
Of  one  that  succoreth. 

Blind,  fainting,  to  His  mighty  breast 
He  caught  and  held  me  fast; 

I  knew  the  fortress  of  His  arms 
About  my  weakness  cast; 

And,  when  He  kissed  my  traitor  cheek, 
I  guessed  His  heart  at  last. 

The  piteous  words  I  oft  had  conned 

I  trembling  strove  to  say; 
But  sudden  glory  round  me  poured 

A  brighter,  richer  day. 
In  wonderment  I  lifted  up 

My  head  that  drooping  lay. 

The  glory  streamed  from  out  His  eyes, 
As  from  all  Beauty's  throne. 

O  depths  of  love  unthinkable 
That  in  that  splendor  shone! 

O  pain  of  love  that  travaileth 
And  bleedeth  for  its  own! 

O  gleam  of  wisdom  hoar  with  eld 

Ere  sang  the  stars  of  morn! 

72 


O  shifting,  blending,  dazzling  lights, 
That  thrilled  my  hope  forlorn 

To  undreamed  miracles  of  joy 
And  surge  of  life  reborn! 


He  brought  me  home,  and  here  I  sit, 

Even  in  my  boyhood's  place; 
And  on  my  very  soul  is  stamped 

Each  largess  of  His  grace; 
But  still  transfiguring  all  I  see 

That  radiance  of  His  face! 

The  Prodigal  Son 

MARION  PELTON  GUILD 


Now  there  was  a  man  of  the  Pharisees 
named  Nicodemus,  a  ruler  of  the  Jews: 
the  same  came  to  Jesus  by  night. 

And  Nicodemus  came  by  night 
When  none  might  hear  or  see — 

He  came  by  night  to  shun  men's  sight 
And  away  by  night  slunk  he. 

He  dared  not  come  by  light  of  day 

To  move  where  sinners  trod: 
He  must  hold  apart  from  the  common  heart, 

For  he  was  a  Man  of  God. 

73 


But  the  honest  Christ,  He  walked  with  men 

Nor  held  his  ways  apart — 
With  publicans  talked,  with  harlots  walked, 

And  loved  them  all  in  his  heart.  . 

Came  Nicodemus  to  Christ  by  night; 

And  long  they  reasoned,  alone, 
Till  the  Old  Man  saw  the  sham  of  the  Law 

That  turned  his  being  to  stone: 

He  tore  the  formal  husks  from  his  life, 
He  was  born  again,  though  gray. 

And,  erect  with  the  youth  of  a  Living  Truth, 
He  dared  the  world  by  day! 

Nicodemus 

HARRY  KEMP 


For  Mary  hath  chosen  the  good  part, 
which  shall  not  be  taken  away  from  her. 

Now  the  Martha  of  her  stiffened  to  her  load, 
Down-weighing,  of  relentless  daily  care. 

Now  she  straightened  upright,  would  not  bend  nor 

break, 
But  held  herself  all  iron  standing  there. 

When  the  Mary  of  her  called  unto  her  soul, 
And  made  a  moan,  and  cried  to  it  in  vain: 

"Oh,  this  woman— look!     She  fretteth  overmuch 
And  leaves  no  space  for  me;   Lord,  I  complain  " 

74 


But  the  Martha  of  her  listened  with  the  sigh 
Of  those  too  weary  or  too  strong  to  rest: 

"Tell  who  taketh,  then,  this  burden  if  I  cease, 
And  empty  both  my  hands  upon  my  breast." 

Oh,  a  soul  divided  is  a  soul  forspent, 
She  went  still  asking:  "Is  it  I?     Or  I?" 

Low  forever  through  the  silence  Mary  spoke, 
And  Martha,  sad  and  sure,  did  make  reply. 

Till  the  irony  and  harmony  of  death 

Made  out  of  these  a  concord  high  and  sweet. 

When  the  Martha  of  the  woman,  toiling,  passed, 
Estranged  from  ease,  she  sought  her  Master's  feet. 

"Now  my  turn  has  come,  my  turn  at  last,"  she  cried, 
"My  time  to  worship,  listening  to  Thy  word." 

Ah,  but  calm  beyond  her,  fair  above  her  still, 
The  Mary  of  her  knelt  before  the  Lord. 

The  Twain  of  Her 
ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD 


Foxes  have  holes  and  birds  have  nests, 
but  the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to 
lay  his  head. 

No  longer  of  Him  be  it  said, 

"He  hath  no  place  to  lay  His  head." 

In  every  land  a  constant  lamp 
Flames  by  His  small  and  mighty  camp. 

75 


There  is  no  strange  and  distant  place 
That  is  not  gladdened  by  His  face. 

And  every  nation  kneels  to  hail 

The  Splendor  shining  through  its  veil. 

Cloistered  beside  the  shouting  street, 
Silent,  He  calls  me  to  His  feet. 

Imprisoned  for  His  love  of  me 
He  makes  my  spirit  greatly  free. 

And  through  my  lips  that  uttered  sin 
The  King  of  Glory  enters  in. 

Citizen  of  the  World 

JOYCE  KILMER 

And  lifting  up  their  eyes, 

they  saw  no  one,  save  Jesus  only. 

If  Death  should  visit  me  to-night 
And  bid  me  forth  unto  the  skies 
I  pray  Thee,  Christ,  to  let  me  see 
No  jasper  paradise. 

But  Thee,  in  fields  of  asphodel, 
Familiar  as  my  earth-eyes  knew, 
With  face  uplift  and  radiant, 
The  Christ  that  Raphael  drew. 

The  Christ  of  Raphael's  Transfiguration 

MARY  Bo  WEN  BRAINERD 

76 


Raise  the  stone,  and  there  thou  shall  find  Me ; 
cleave  the  wood,  and  there  am  I.    Logion  V. 

Hear  the  word  that  Jesus  spake 
Eighteen  centuries  ago, 
Where  the  crimson  lilies  blow 
Round  the  blue  Tiberian  lake: 
There  the  bread  of  life  he  brake, 

Through  the  fields  of  harvest  walking 
With  His  lowly  comrades,  talking 
Of  the  secret  thoughts  that  feed 
Weary  hearts  in  time  of  need. 
Art  thou  hungry?    Come  and  take; 
Hear  the  word  that  Jesus  spake: 
'Tis  the  sacrament  of  labour;  meat  and  drink  divinely 

blest; 

Friendship's  food,   and  sweet  refreshment;    strength 
and  courage,  joy  and  rest. 

Yet  this  word  the  Master  said, 

Long  ago  and  far  away, 

Silent  and  forgotten  lay 
Buried  with  the  silent  dead, — 
Where  the  sands  of  Egypt  spread, 

Sea-like,  tawny  billows  heaping 

Over  ancient  cities  sleeping; 
While  the  River  Nile  between 
Rolls  its  summer  flood  of  green, 

Rolls  its  autumn  flood  of  red, — 

There  the  word  the  Master  said 

77 


Written  on  a  frail  papyrus,  scorched  by  fire,  wrinkled, 

torn, 
Hidden  in  God's  hand,  was  waiting  for  its  resurrection 

morn. 

Hear  the  Master's  risen  word! 
Delving  spades  have  set  it  free, — 
Wake!  the  world  has  need  of  thee, — 
Rise,  and  let  thy  voice  be  heard, 
Like  a  fountain  disinterred, 

Upward  springing,  singing,  sparkling; 
Through  the  doubtful  shadows  darkling; 
Till  the  clouds  of  pain  and  rage 
Brooding  o'er  the  toiling  age, 
As  with  rifts  of  light  are  stirred 
By  the  music  of  the  word; 
Gospel  for  the  heavy-laden,  answer  to  the  labourer's 

cry; 

"Raise  the  stone,  and  thou  shalt  find  me;   cleave  the 
wood,  and  there  am  I." 

A  Lost  Word  of  Jesus 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


Come  unto  Me  and  I  will  give  you  rest. 

We  labor  and  are  heavy-laden.     Where 

Shall  we  find  rest  unto  our  souls?  We  bleed 
On  thorn  and  flint,  and  rove  in  pilgrim  weed 
From  shrine  to  shrine,  but  comfort  is  not  there. 

78 


Wliat  went  we  out  into  thy  desert  bare, 
O  Human  Life,  to  see?     Thy  greenest  reed 
Is  Love,  unmighty  for  our  utmost  need, 
And  shaken  with  the  wind  of  our  despair. 

A  voice  from  Heaven  like  dew  on  Hermon  falleth, 
That  voice  whose  passion  paled  the  olive  leaf 
In  thy  dusky  aisles,  Gethsemane,  thou  blest 

Of  gardens.     'Tis  the  Man  of  Sorrows  calleth, 
The  Man  of  Sorrows  and  acquaint  with  grief: 
"Come  unto  Me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

Come  Unto  Me 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


For  power  came  from  him, 
and  healed  them  all. 

"Some  one  has  touched  me, — touched  my  garment 

hem; 

For  I  perceive  that  power  hath  issued  hence." 
There  stayed  the   Christ   midway,   and  journeyed 

thence 

To  her  just  dropped  from  Jairus'  diadem, — 
A  virgin  shining  pure,  worth  living,  gem 
Of  Israel.     Can  Jesus  recompense? 
He   may?     Who   stopped   him?     Dared   such   give 

offense? 

'Twas  one  impure, — and  cured!     He  answers  them: 
"Power  hath  gone  out  from  me."     O,  thus  began, 
And  thus  continued,  His  atonement  true. 

79 


Drop  after  drop,  His  anguished  heart  gave  man 
The  life  that  saves,  till  death  o'er-anxious  grew 

To  meet  Him  face  to  face,  with  hell's  dire  clan. 
Then  Christ  gave  all,  and  sin  and  death  overthrew, 

The  Cost  of  Saving 

FRANK  W.  GUNSAULUS 

Consider  the  lilies 
of  the  field! 

Thy  loveliness  is  meek  and  free 

From  arrogance,  and  yet  I  find 
A  certain  stately  pride  in  thee 

That  wakens  reverie  in  my  mind 

And  well  I  ween  why  it  is  so! — 

A  lily  once  the  Master  took 
His  lesson  from,  then  let  it  go, 

But  first  He  blessed  it  with  a  look. 

Ah!  who  can  doubt  the  flower  was  thrilled 
With  tremblings  strange  and  raised  its  head 

With  joy,  its  lovesome  body  filled 
With  sense  of  what  the  Master  said? 

And  lilies  sin£e,  forevermore, 

Do  hold  them  high,  do  bear  them  well, 
Do  raise  their  cups  more  proudly,  for 

The  lily  of  the  parable. 

The  Lily 
RICHARD  BURTON 

80 


Come  ye  apart  into  a  desert  place 
and  rest  a  while, 

A  pale  light  streaming  through  the  rainy  sky 

Like  peace  through  sorrow,  comforting  the  eye 

On  our  Palm  Sunday,  wayworn  pilgrims  three, 

Beside  the  lonely  lake  of  Galilee 

— Most  blest  of  lakes,  whose  hush  remembers  yet 

Those  multitudes  on  broad  Gennesaret, 

The  reaching  arms,  the  cries  that  still  pursued, 

As  Jesus  sought  the  mid-sea  solitude. 

How  oft  Mount  Hermon,  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Would  cleave  its  clouds,  exceeding  white  as  snow, 
An  alabaster  altar  crowned  with  fire, 
To  worship  Him,  the  blind  world's  long  Desire, 
The  Christ,  a  guest  in  some  rude  fishing-boat, 
Wrapt  in  His  seamless  Galilean  coat, 
Forspent  with  healing,  drawing  heavy  breath, 
The  Lord  of  Life  Who  went  the  way  of  death. 

And  He,  on  whom  our  mortal  weakness  weighed, 
— Even  on  Him,  Whom  winds  and  waves  obeyed,- 
Would  peradventure  watch,  too  tired  for  prayer, 
That  sudden  splendor  melt  in  purple  air, 
As  dusk  drew  over  and  the  stars  shone  out, 
Until  the  murmurous  ripples,  that  about 
The  rocking  keel  intoned  their  timid  psalms, 
Were  to  His  slumber  like  the  sound  of  palms. 

If  then  stepped  soft  the  sons  of  Zebedee 
To  ease  the  drooping  head  on  patient  knee 

81 


Or  coil  of  net  for  pillow,  surely  they 

Marvelled  above  the  Dreamer,  for  He  lay 

With  tender  triumph  on  the  wistful  face, 

As  of  one  welcomed  by  the  waving  grace 

Of  fair  green  branches,  while  their  hearts  in  them 

Burned  with  impatience  for  Jerusalem. 

Palm  Sunday  in  Galilee 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


Why  are  ye  fearful  ? 
Have  ye  not  yet  faith  ? 

What  shall  we  do  when  two  great  tides  knock 
And  remorseless  enter  though  walls  be  rock? 
When  the  strong  waves  dash  and  the  surges  roll 
And  Creation's  forces  overwhelm  the  soul? 
Christ!   oh  Christ!    once  again  say  "Peace!" 
Yet  once  again  bid  the  tempest  cease! 

What  shall  we  do  when  the  tides  go  back, 
When  the  dull  sky  hangs  over  weed  and  wrack, 
When  there's  nothing  left  for  the  dreary  strand 
But  a  foam-spread  waste  and  a  sea-wet  sand? 
Once  again,  oh  Christ!  build  Thy  little  fire; 
Feed  and  comfort  us,  Heart's  Desire! 

Consolator 
MAI  ELMENDORF  LILLIE 

82 


Put  out  into  the  deep 

and  let  down  your  nets  for  a  draught. 

Yea,  we  have  toiled  all  night.     All  night 
We  kept  the  boats,  we  cast  the  nets. 

Nothing  avails:   the  tides  withhold, 
The  Sea  hears  not,  and  God  forgets. 

Long  ere  the  sunset,  we  took  leave 

Of  them  at  home  whom  want  doth  keep; 

Now  bitterness  be  all  their  bread 

And  tears  their  drink,  and  death  their  sleep! 

The  gaunt  moon  stayed  to  look  on  us 

And  marvel  we  abode  so  still. 
Again  we  cast,  again  we  drew 

The  nets  that  naught  but  hope  did  fill. 

And  while  the  grasp  of  near  Despair 
Did  threaten  nearer  with  the  day, 

Leagues  out,  the  bounteous  silver-sides 

Leaped  through  the  sheltering  waves,  at  play! 

So,  stricken  with  the  cold  that  smites 
Death  to  a  dying  heart  at  morn, 

We  waited,  thralls  to  hunger,  such 

As  the  strong  stars  may  laugh  to  scorn. 

And  while  we  strove,  leagues  out,  afar, 
Returning  tides, — with  mighty  hands 
Full  of  the  silver! — passed  us  by 

To  cast  it  upon  alien  lands. 

83 


Against  the  surge  of  hope  we  stood 
And  the  waves  laughed  with  victory; 

Yet  at  our  heart-strings,  with  the  nets, 
Tugged  the  false  promise  of  the  sea. 


So  all  the  night-time  we  kept  watch; 

And  when  the  years  of  night  were  done, 
Aflame  with  hunger,  stared  on  us 

The  fixed  red  eye  of  yonder  sun. 


Thou  Wanderer  from  land  to  land, 
Say  who  Thou  art  that  bids  us  strive 

Once  more  against  the  eternal  Sea 
That  loves  to  take  strong  men  alive. 


Lo,  we  stood  fast,  and  we  endure: 

But  trust  not  Thou  the  Sea  we  know, 

Mighty  of  bounty  and  of  hate, 

Slayer  and  friend,  with  ebb  and  flow. 


Thou  hast  not  measured  strength  as  we 
Sea-faring  men  that  toil.     And  yet — 

Once  more,  once  more — at  Thy  strange  word, 
Master,  we  will  let  down  the  net! 

The  Fishers 
JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY 

84 


And  he  came  forth  and  saw  a  great  multitude, 
and  he  had  compassion  on  them. 

When  the  golden  evening  gathered  on  the  shore  of  Galilee, 

When  the  fishing  boats  lay  quiet  by  the  sea, 

Long  ago  the  people  wondered,  tho'  no  sign  was  in 

the  sky, 
For  the  glory  of  the  Lord  was  passing  by. 

Not  in  robes  of  purple  splendor,  not  in  silken  softness 

shod, 

But  in  raiment  worn  with  travel  came  their  God, 
And  the  people  knew  His  presence  by  the  heart  that 

ceased  to  sigh 
When  the  glory  of  the  Lord  was  passing  by. 

For  He  healed  their  sick  at  even,  and  He  cured  the 

leper's  sore, 

And  sinful  men  and  women  sinned  no  more, 
And  the  world  grew  mirthful-hearted,  and  forgot  its 

misery 
When  the  glory  of  the  Lord  was  passing  by. 

Not  in  robes  of  purple  splendor,  but  in  lives  that  do 

His  will, 

In  patient  acts  of  kindness  He  comes  still; 
And  the  people  cry  with  wonder,  tho'  no  sign  is  in 

the  sky, 
That  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  passing  by. 

How  He  Came 

W.  J.  DAWSON 

85 


To-day  is  salvation  come  to  this  house. 

For  the  Son  of  man  came  to  seek  and  to  save 

that  which  was  lost. 

This  plain  made  bright  with  streaks  of  crimson  clay 
And  sprinkled  o'er  with  grains  of  golden  sand — 
The  vestige  of  a  long-forgotten  strand — 

Once  saw  the  host  of  Israel  as  it  lay 

With  pikes  and  trumpets  in  war's  fierce  array. 
Now  in  the  grass  the  solemn  wild  storks  stand, 
A  pensive  silence  broods  upon  the  land, 

Unbroken  by  the  shout  which  won  that  day. 

Zaccheus  lived  here,  who  desired  to  see 

When  Christ  came  down  the  Jordan  wilderness; 

And  one  born  blind  cried  out  exceedingly. 
I  too  am  blind,  my  Lord;  oh,  give  me  sight! 

Illume  my  mind,  Thou  very  Light  of  Light! 

I  cannot  let  Thee  go  until  Thou  bless. 

Jericho 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 


He  told  me  all  things  that  ever  I  did. 

Too  well  I  know  what  the  voices  mean — 
The  tale  of  the  mart,  the  cry  of  the  street, 
The  whispered  word  and  the  grin  unclean 

That  follow  my  weary-moving  feet — 
86 


I  am  what  they  will  not  forget 

Who  kept  their  girlhood  clean  and  free — 

A  woman  of  the  street,  and  yet, 

The  Christ's  own  hand  fell  soft  on  me. 

Bitter  it  is  to  feel  and  know 
I  love  the  life  I  now  must  lead — 
The  thrilling  glare,  the  flaunting  show, 
The  painted  craft,  the  shallow  greed: 
Yes,  I  could  find  it  in  my  power 
To  laugh  and  burn  my  life  away, 
But  that  there  comes  a  little  hour 
Between  the  fevered  night  and  day, 

In  the  chill  dawn,  perhaps,  or  blown 
Down  the  still  pave,  when  one  by  one 
The  beacon  street-lamps  wink  alone, 
The  day's  work  ended,  mine  begun— 
Then  like  a  knell  of  death  I  hear 
"Thou  art  forgiv'n:   go,  sin  no  more!" 
But  whither  can  I  take  my  fear, 
And  who  will  bide  the  leper's  sore? 

A  Woman  of  Samaria 

DOUGLAS  DUER 

Go,  and  sin  no  more. 

Master,  what  work  hast  thou  for  me, — 
For  me,  who  turn  aside  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  my  own  blame? 
Thou  seest,  Lord. 

87 


I  see. 

That  shame  for  Me  thou  shalt  endure, 
That  thou  mayst  succour  souls  afraid, 
Who  would  not  dare  to  seek  for  aid 
The  mercilessly  pure. 

But  must  my  heart  forever  show 
These  scars  of  unforgotten  pain? 
May  it  be  never  whole  again? 
Thou  knowest,  Lord. 

I  know. 

Those  scars  I  leave  thee  for  a  sign 
That  bleeding  hearts  may  creep  to  rest 
As  on  a  mother's  sheltering  breast 
On  that  scarred  heart  of  thine. 

Magdalen  to  Christ 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 


And  I  give  unto  them  eternal  life; 
and  they  shall  never  perish. 

Lazarus  tells  the  people  that  crowd  about  him  why  he 
came  back  from  the  land  of  the  dead. 

Lazarus — 

Who  has  seen  Heaven 

May  pass  no  speech  upon  it.     I  grow  dumb 
And  helpless  thinking  of  it,  with  no  words 
But  for  one  only  thing,  and  that  the  best, 
Since  that  it  lured  me  out  of  perfect  bliss 

And  Heaven  was  not  strong  to  keep  me  from  it. 

88 


The  crowd — 
The  Christ!    The  Christ! 

A  man — 

I  think  it  was  His  face 

That  shone  upon  thee.     If  I  were  dispersed 
Into  the  various  ways  of  sun  and  dew, 
A  portion  of  the  slow  mood  of  the  soil 
And  sweet  thought  of  the  air,  I  would  return 
And,  reaching  helpless  hands  out  of  the  dust, 
Gathering  dimly  out  of  stone  and  rain, 
Would  rear  myself  before  Him  if  His  face 
But  shone  upon  the  world  where  I  abode. 

Lazarus — 

Nay,  not  the  love  and  solace  of  His  face. 

A  woman — 

What  drew  thee,  then?   The  way  were  cold  to  come 
With  no  dear  smile  to  lure.     What  better  thing 
Bade  thee  from  Paradise? 

A  man — 

It  was  His  voice! 

Ay!     Were  I  feasting  with  the  happy  dead 
And  shouting  with  great  laughter,  I  would  rise, 
Forgetting  love  and  cheer  for  ways  forlorn 
So  that  His  voice  called. 

Lazarus — 

Nay — not  His  voice. 


A  woman — 

Thou  earnest  all  alone?     What  swayed  thee,  then, 
To  seek  our  sorrow  from  the  blessed  dead? 

Lazarus — 

A  great  desire  led  me  out  alone 

From  those  assured  abodes  of  perfect  bliss. 

One  thing  more  fair  than  they,  more  keen,  more 

sweet ! 

And  I  was  swayed  before  it  helplessly, 
For  the  desire  of  it;   and  I  rose, 
And  stepped  from  those  slow  seons  of  delight 
And  by  the  way  I  went  came  seeking  earth, 
Seeing  before  my  eyes  one  only  thing— 

The  crowd — 

What  was  it,  Lazarus?     Let  us  share  that  thing. 
What  was  it,  brother,  thou  didst  see? 

Lazarus — 

A  cross. 

Passage  from  Lazarus 
ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 


THE    GREAT    WEEK    IN 
JESUS'    LIFE 


My  house  shall  be  called  a  house  of  prayer 
for  all  the  nations. 

On  the  day  that  Christ  ascended 

To  Jerusalem, 

Singing  multitudes  attended, 
And  the  very  heavens  were  rended 

With  the  shout  of  them. 

Chanted  they  a  sacred  ditty, 

Every  heart  elate; 
But  he  wept  in  brooding  pity, 
Then  went  in  the  holy  city 

By  the  Golden  Gate. 

In  the  temple,  lo!  what  lightning 

Makes  unseemly  rout' 
He  in  anger,  sudden,  frightening, 
Drives  with  scorn  and  scourge  the  whitening 

Money-changers  out. 

By  the  way  that  Christ  descended 

From  Mount  Olivet, 
I,  a  lonely  pilgrim,  wended, 
On  the  day  his  entry  splendid 

Is  remembered  yet. 
93 


And  I  thought:   If  he,  returning 

On  this  high  festival, 

Here  should  haste  with  love  and  yearning, 
Where  would  now  his  fearful,  burning 

Anger  flash  and  fall? 

In  the  very  house  they  builded 

To  his  saving  name, 
'Mid  their  altars,  gemmed  and  gilded, 
Would  his  scourge  and  scorn  be  wielded, 

His  fierce  lightning  flame? 

Once  again,  O  Man  of  Wonder, 

Let  thy  voice  be  heard! 
Speak  as  with  a  sound  of  thunder; 
Drive  the  false  thy  roof  from  under, 

Teach  thy  priests  thy  word. 

The  Anger  of  Christ 
RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


But  ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  robbers. 

That  day  the  doves  with  burnished  breasts 
Uneasy  were;   we,  halt  and  blind  and  lame, 

Within  the  temple  waited,  ugly  guests, 

Hoping,  in  spite  of  filth,  disease  and  shame; 

Outside  the  multitude  waved  branches  green, 

Calling,  "Hosanna  to  the  Nazarene." 

94 


I  shrank  close  to  the  roof-prop,  for  my  eyes 

Were   dead   to   seeing:  but   I   heard   the   clink   of 

coins, 
The  piles  of  silver  shekels  steadily  rise, 

Poured  from  sheiks'  bags  and  belts  'round  merchant 

loins; 

I  heard  the  purple  priced;   and  in  between 
Far  off, — "Hosanna  to  the  Nazarene." 

I  could  not  see  Him  enter,  but  I  heard 
The  multitude  and  smelled  the  dusty  throng: 

Old  Anab  brushed  me  with  his  ragged  beard, 

Muttering,  "Kneel,  thou!   He  will  speak  ere  long." 

Yea — though  five  times  more  leprous  I  had  been 

I  would  come  here  to  implore  the  Nazarene. 

But  then  the  woman  Terah,  ill  of  pox, 

Began  to  whimper.     "See,  he  bringeth  woe! 

He  overturns  the  booths,  the  treasure-box; 

His  eyes  blaze  on  the  dove-sellers.     Let  us  go! 

He'll  scourge  us,  smite  us.     Tush!     It  is  well  seen 

We  shall  be  cursed  of  the  Nazarene." 


A  form  swept  past  us,  we  in  terror  caught 
A  man's  clear  voice  of  anger:  then  the  sound 

Of  fleeing  feet  of  traffickers,  onslaught 

On  booths,  and  tables  crashing  to  the  ground. 

I  heard  the  money  scatter  and  careen 

Under  the  spurning  of  the  Nazarene. 

95 


Rachel,  a  maiden,  clutched  my  sleeve,  and  shrank 
With  me  behind  the  curtain,  and  the  crowd 

Surged  wildly  past.     For  us,  our  dear  hopes  sank 
Under  that  stern  voice  cutting  like  a  goad, 

Judging,  arraigning,  charging;  'mid  the  spleen 

Of  money-changers,  stood  the  Nazarene! 

"This  temple  is  my  house,  the  House  of  Prayer!" 
(His  voice  was  like  the  wind  that  whips  the  leaves) 

"But  with  your  buy  ings  and  your  sellings  there 
Ye — ye  have  made  my  house  a  den  of  thieves!'9 

Then  little  Rachel  sobbed;  "Awful  his  mien; 

His  eyes  are  flames;    I  fear  the  Nazarene." 

But  when  the  temple  silenced — while  a  dove 
Fluttered  and  soared  and  beat  against  the  roof, 

We  frightened  beggars  heard  a  voice  of  love 
Calling  us  gently;   then  his  tender  proof 

He  gave.     He  healed  us!     I,  who  had  been 

Blind  from  my  birth — I  saw  the  Nazarene! 

Told  in  the  Market-place 

EDWINA  STANTON  BABCOCK 


Blessed  is  the  king  that  cometh 
in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

The  street  stands  crowded  from  wall  to  wall, 
Yon  Hebrew  boy,  come  here,  I  pray, 
And  tell  me  what  has  sufficed  to  call 

Such  multitude  abroad  to-day. 
96 


"Friend,  do  you  see  upon  yonder  hill 

Where  the  road  winds  around  old  Olive's  brow?" 

"Lad,  I  see  only  the  sunshine  still, 

And  some  ragged  trees  and  the  dust  below; 

"While  along  the  poor  path  some  weary  men, 

With  one  in  their  midst  as  poor  as  they; 

He  is  much  bespent,  for  I  see  again, 

That  he  rides  on  an  ass;  and  they  draw  this  way." 

"Stranger,  many  a  month  before, 

I  stood  on  the  coast  of  Gennesaret's  sea; 

In  a  basket  of  wicker  some  loaves  I  bore 

That  my  mother,  at  home,  had  prepared  for  me. 

"Stranger,  just  at  the  set  of  the  sun, 

He  that  was  teaching  called  me  anear; 

'Will  you  give  me  your  loaves,  lad?'     'Every  one!' 

I  answered,  and  gave  them  with  never  a  fear. 

"Stranger,  five  thousand  men  and  more 
Had  heard  what  the  teacher  had  to  say; 
And  these  were  hungry;   He  blessed  my  store, 
And  He  fed  them  all,  and  He  sent  them  away. 

"Stranger,  He  that  rides  down  toward  the  gate 
Is  that  Teacher —     All  Hail!     Let  me  go,  I  say. 
I  must  join  them  at  once.     I  would  not  be  late. 
You  must  keep  me  no  longer, — I  cannot  stay." 
97 


"Hosanna!"  down  from  the  hill  they  cry, 
"Hosanna!"  comes  back  from  the  town  below, 
As  they  pay  meet  homage  and  honor  high, 
And  for  Christ's  dear  feet  their  green  palms  strow. 

Part  of  a  poem  called  Palm  Sunday 

CARROLL  LUND  BATES 


When  he  drew  nigh,  he  saw  the  city, 
and  wept  over  it. 

The  long  ascent  was  ended,  evening  shed 

Its  softest  light,  and  from  Mount  Olive's  brow 
The  holy  city  stood  before  Him;  how 

Fair,  with  temple  crowned  and  garlanded 

With  massive  walls.  The  sacrifice  is  led 
Not  only  in  the  days  of  Abraham's  vow 
To  Mount  Moriah,  but  comes  here  and  now 

Upon  the  ass's  colt  with  garments  spread. 

"Jerusalem,"  the  tender  voice  laments, 

"That  stonest  those  that  come  to  thy  release, 
The  slaughter  of  the  holy  innocents, 

The  blood  of  martyrs  make  thy  diadem; 
If  thou  hadst  known,  e'en  thou,  Jerusalem, 
The  precious  things  belonging  to  thy  peace!" 

The  Lament 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 

98 


O  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem, 
that  killetk  the  prophets! 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  who  oft 

His  love  had  gathered  thee  beneath  its  wings 
And  thou  wouldst  not! — Love  crucified  aloft 

On  Calvary,  enthroned  the  King  of  Kings. 

At  Jerusalem 
KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


Are  ye  able  to  drink  the  cup 
that  I  am  about  to  drink? 

At  last  the  bird  that  sung  so  long 
In  twilight  circles,  hushed  his  song; 
Above  the  ancient  square 
The  stars  came  here  and  there. 

Good  Friday  Night!     Some  hearts  were  bowed, 
But  some  amid  the  waiting  crowd 
Because  of  too  much  youth 
Felt  not  the  mystic  ruth; 

And  of  these  hearts  my  heart  was  one: 
Nor  when  beneath  the  arch  of  stone 
With  dirge  and  candle  flame 
The  cross  of  passion  came, 

Did  my  glad  spirit  feel  reproof, 
Though  on  the  awful  tree  aloof, 

99 


Unspiritual,  dead, 

Drooped  the  ensanguined  Head. 

To  one  who  stood  where  myrtles  made 
A  little  space  of  deeper  shade 
(As  I  could  half  descry, 
A  stranger,  even  as  I), 

I  said,  "Those  youths  who  bear  along 
The  symbols  of  their  Saviour's  wrong, 
The  spear,  the  garment  torn, 
The  flaggel,  and  the  thorn, — 

"Why  do  they  make  this  mummery? 
Would  not  a  brave  man  gladly  die 
For  a  much  smaller  thing 
Than  to  be  Christ  and  king?" 

He  answered  nothing,  and  I  turned. 
Throned  in  its  hundred  candles  burned 
The  jewelled  eidolon 
Of  her  who  bore  the  Son. 

The  crowd  was  prostrate;   still,  I  felt 
No  shame  until  the  stranger  knelt; 
Then  not  to  kneel,  almost 
Seemed  like  a  vulgar  boast. 

I  knelt.     The  doll-face,  waxen  white, 
Flowered  out  a  living  dimness;  bright 
Dawned  the  dear  mortal  grace 
Of  my  own  mother's  face. 
100 


When  we  were  risen  up,  the  street 
Was  vacant;  all  the  air  hung  sweet 
With  lemon-flowers;   and  soon 
The  sky  would  hold  the  moon. 

More  silently  than  new-found  friends 
To  whom  much  silence  makes  amends 
For  the  much  babble  vain 
While  yet  their  lives  were  twain, 

We  walked  along  the  odorous  hill. 
The  light  was  little  yet;   his  will 
I  could  not  see  to  trace 
Upon  his  form  or  face. 

So  when  aloft  the  gold  moon  broke, 
I  cried,  heart-stung.     As  one  who  woke 
He  turned  unto  my  cries 
The  anguish  of  his  eyes. 

"Friend!     Master!"  I  cried  falteringly, 
"Thou  seest  the  thing  they  make  of  Thee. 
Oh,  by  the  light  divine, 
My  mother  shares  with  thine, 

"I  beg  that  I  may  lay  my  head 
Upon  thy  shoulder  and  be  fed 
With  thoughts  of  brotherhood!" 

So  through  the  odorous  wood, 
101 


More  silently  than  friends  new-found 
We  walked.     At  the  first  meadow  bound 
His  figure  ashen-stoled 
Sank  in  the  moon's  broad  gold. 

Good  Friday  Night 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 


Having  loved  his  own  which  were  in  the 
world,  he  loved  them  unto  the  end. 

John,  my  beloved,  come  with  me  apart 
In  this  dim  garden  for  a  little  space. 
I  cannot  rest  me  though  the  others  sleep; 
There  is  a  time  to  wake  them,  but  not  now. 

Is  it  not  good  to  climb  this  hill  to-night 

After  the  glad  hozannas  in  the  street, 

The  crowding  faces,  life  and  men  and  love, 

Here  on  the  slope  of  the  eternal  stars 

To  watch  the  lights  that  shine  through  Kedron's  vale, 

And  'neath  the  olives  walk  alone  with  God  ? 

'Tis  not  the  first  time  that  we  two  have  walked 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  underneath  the  stars; 
Nor  yet  the  last,  John,  though  to-morrow's  sun 
Should  dawn  upon  you,  and  on  you  alone. 

Nay,  my  good  brother,  loose  your  fingers'  grip. 
You  could  not  keep  me  if  I  willed  to  go: 

102 


Your  heart  enfolds  me,  not  your  fearful  arm — 
The  lights  shine  clearer  through  the  dusky  vale, 
And  with  their  coming,  John,  we  say  goodbye. 

We  say  goodbye,  for  every  road  must  end, 
All  pleasant  journeys  underneath  the  sun; 
Claspt  hands  are  severed,  hungry  lips  must  part, 
The  long  night  comes  at  close  of  every  day, 
And  men  must  slumber  when  their  work  is  done. 

Nay,  it  is  better,— light  is  not  light  alone; 

Were  there  no  shadows,  even  suns  were  blind; 

Only  by  parting  do  men  meet  again. 

And  we  have  met,  John,  met  in  a  holy  land 

Alone  with  God  in  his  great  silences 

Where  never  men  have  ventured — you  and  I. 

And  we  have  looked  upon  the  gates  of  heaven, 

Beyond  the  stars,  beyond  the  flaming  sun, 

Beyond  all  time,  and  known  that  God  is  love. 

Was  it  not  worth  it,  just  to  dare  to  be 
One's  simple  self,  to  think,  to  love,  to  do, 
And  not  to  be  ashamed?    To  live  one's  life 
Fearless  and  pure  and  strong,  true  to  one's  self, 
Though  the  false  world  were  full  of  lies  and  hate, 
Where  blind  men  lead  each  other  through  the  dark, 
Too  weak  to  sin,  ashamed  of  what  is  good, 
Unable  to  do  evil,  thinking  it. 

But  we  have  dared.     David  and  Jonathan 
Drank  no  divinelier  in  courts  of  Saul 

Than  we  together  in  Gethsemane. 

103 


And  though  to-night  I  drain  the  cup  of  death 
Down  to  the  stinging  dregs  of  Judas'  kiss, 
The  wine  of  love  lies  sweeter  on  my  lips — 
I  see  the  lanterns  gleaming.     Kiss  me,  John. 


John 
WILLARD  WATTLES 


He  went  forth  with  his  disciples  over  the  brook  Kidron, 
where  was  a  garden. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him, 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him, 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  love  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

104 


My  soul  is  exceeding  sorrowful 

even  unto  death; 

abide  ye  here,  and  watch. 

There  is  a  sighing  in  the  pallid  sprays 
Of  these  old  olives,  as  if  still  they  kept 

Their  pitying  watch,  in  Nature's  faithful  ways, 
As  on  that  night  when  the  disciples  slept, 

At  Gethsemane 
KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


What  then  shall  I  do  unto  Jesus 
who  is  called  the  Christ? 

Have  thou  naught  to  do  with  Him,  O  Pilate, 
With  that  Just  One!    For  to-night  a  dream 
Or  an  angel  spoke:  most  dread  revealing 
Did  the  vision  seem! 

Throned  amid  the  clouds  of  heaven  I  see  Him; 

See  the  lightnings  flashing  from  His  brow; 
And  that  Face! — 'tis  His,  the  Galilean's, 
Thou  art  judging  now. 

Oh,  the  clouds  of  splendor!  they  enfold  Him: 

How  the  angels  throng;  their  faces  shine; 
Oh,  His  eyes!  with  calmness,  deep,  majestic, 

Looking  into  mine: — 
105 


But  I  shrink  away, — I  cannot  bear  it, 

All  that  glory.     Heaven  is  bending  down, 
And  the  thorn-pierced,  mighty  brow,  refulgent, 
Wears  a  victor's  crown. 

Earth,  all  hushed,  is  waiting  to  adore  Him, 

Mighty  seas  are  murmuring  at  His  feet; 
Mountain  heights,  in  silence,  grand,  before  Him 
Stand,  their  King  to  greet. 

See,  the  nations  gather;   He  hath  called  them, — 

His,  the  mighty  fiat  they  obey; 
His,  the  Man  enthroned  amid  the  angels 
On  that  awful  day. 

Barest  thou  meet  Him,  in  the  hour  of  judgment? 

Pilate, — canst  thou  answer  to  His  call? 
Trembling  I  behold  thee;  pallid  terror 
Holdeth  thee  in  thrall: 

Dumb,  convicted,  thou  wouldst  sue  for  mercy, 
Yet  canst  find  no  plea,  can  speak  no  word: 
Who  is  this? — the  Judge,  whose  silence  smiteth 
Like  avenging  sword? 

Fades  the  dream,  as  dawn  dispels  the  midnight; 

Last  to  vanish  is  that  Face  sublime; 
And  His  eyes,  still  searching  mine,  command  me 

Speak,  while  yet  there's  time. 
106 


Oh,  refuse  not!    Pilate,  heed  the  vision, — 

All  my  soul  in  anguish  bids  thee  hear; 
Oh,  condemn  thou  not  this  Man,  the  Just  One; 
For  I  fear,  /  fear! 

The  Dream  of  Claudia  Procula 

MARTHA  ELVIRA  PETTUS 


The  unsearchable  riches  of  Christ. 

My  Master  was  so  very  poor, 
A  manger  was  His  cradling  place; 
So  very  rich  my  Master  was 
Kings  came  from  far 
To  gain  His  grace. 

My  Master  was  so  very  poor 

And  with  the  poor  He  broke  the  bread; 

So  very  rich  my  Master  was 

That  multitudes 

By  him  were  fed. 

My  Master  was  so  very  poor 
They  nailed  Him  naked  to  a  cross; 
So  very  rich  my  Master  was 
He  gave  His  all 
And  knew  no  loss. 

My  Master 

HARRY  LEE 

107 


Pilate  delivered  Jesusy  when 
he  had  secured  him,  to  be 
crucified. 

I  saw  in  Siena  pictures, 

Wandering  wearily; 
I  sought  not  the  names  of  the  masters 

Nor  the  works  men  care  to  see; 
But  once  in  a  low-ceiled  passage 

I  came  on  a  place  of  gloom, 
Lit  here  and  there  with  halos 

Like  saints  within  the  room. 
The  pure,  serene,  mild  colors 

The  early  artists  used 
Had  made  my  heart  grow  softer, 

And  still  on  peace  I  mused. 
Sudden  I  saw  the  Sufferer, 

And  my  frame  was  clenched  with  pain; 
Perchance  no  throe  so  noble 

Visits  my  soul  again. 
Mine  were  the  stripes  of  the  scourging; 

On  my  thorn-pierced  brow  blood  ran; 
In  my  breast  the  deep  compassion 

Breaking  the  heart  for  man. 
I  drooped  with  heavy  eyelids, 

Till  evil  should  have  its  will; 
On  my  lips  was  silence  gathered; 

My  waiting  soul  stood  still. 
I  gazed,  nor  knew  I  was  gazing; 

I  trembled,  and  woke  to  know 
Him  whom  they  worship  in  heaven 

Still  walking  on  earth  below. 

108 


Once  have  I  borne  his  sorrows 

Beneath  the  flail  of  fate! 
Once,  in  the  woe  of  his  passion, 

I  felt  the  soul  grow  great! 
I  turned  from  my  dead  Leader; 

I  passed  the  silent  door; 
The  gray-walled  street  received  me; 

On  peace  I  mused  no  more. 


Christ  Scourged 
GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


And  they  crucify  him. 


Friendless  and  faint,  with  martyred  steps  and  slow, 

Faint  for  the  flesh,  but  for  the  spirit  free, 

Stung  by  the  mob  that  came  to  see  the  show, 

The  Master  toiled  along  to  Calvary; 

We  gibed  him,  as  he  went,  with  houndish  glee, 

Till  his  dim  eyes  for  us  did  overflow; 

We  cursed  his  vengeless  hands  thrice  wretchedly, — 

And  this  was  nineteen  hundred  years  ago. 

But  after  nineteen  hundred  years  the  shame 
Still  clings,  and  we  have  not  made  good  the  loss 
That  outraged  faith  has  entered  in  his  name. 
Ah,  when  shall  come  love's  courage  to  be  strong! 
Tell  me,  O  Lord — tell  me,  O  Lord,  how  long 
Are  we  to  keep  Christ  writhing  on  the  cross! 

Calvary 
EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

109 


/  glorified  thee  on  earth,  having  accomplished 
the  work  which  thou  hast  given  me  to  do. 

From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary,  the  Saviour's  journey 

lay; 
Doubt,  unbelief,  scorn,  fear  and  hate  beset  Him  day 

by  day, 
But  in  His  heart  He  bore  God's  love  that  brightened 

all  the  way. 

O'er  the  Judean  hills  He  walked,  serene  and  brave  of 

soul, 
Seeking  the  beaten  paths  of  men,  touching  and  making 

whole, 
Dying  at  last  for  love  of  man,  on  Calvary's  darkened 

knoll. 

He  went  with  patient  steps  and  slow,  as  one  who  scat 
ters  seed; 

Like  a  fierce  hunger  in  His  heart,  He  felt  the  world's 
great  need, 

And  the  negations  Moses  gave  He  changed  to  loving 
deed. 

From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary  the  world  still  follows  on, 
Even  as  the  halt  and  blind  of  old  along  His  path  were 

drawn; 
Through  Calvary's  clouds  they  seek  the  light  that  led 

Him  to  the  dawn. 

From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary 

MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 
no 


Truly  this  man  was  the  Son  of  God. 

After  the  shameful  trial  in  the  hall, 

The  mocking  and  the  scourging,  and  the  pain 
Of  Peter's  words;   to  Herod,  and  again 

To  Pilate's  judgment-seat,  the  royal  pall, 

The  cross  itself,  the  vinegar  and  gall; 

The  thieves  close  by,  discipleship  proved  vain, 
The  scoffing  crowd,  His  mother's  tears  like  rain, 

There  came  one  moment,  bitterest  of  all. 

Yet  in  that  cry,  when  flesh  and  spirit  failed, 
Last  effort  of  the  awful  way  He  trod, 
Which  shook  the  earth,  nor  left  the  temple  veiled, 

In  that  exceeding  great  and  bitter  cry 

Was  conquest.     The  centurion  standing  by 
Said,  Truly  this  man  was  the  Son  of  God. 

The  Ninth  Hour 

CAROLINE  HAZARD 


And  when  Peter  thought  thereon,  he  wept. 

Peter  and  James  and  John, 
The  sad  tale  runneth  on — 
All  slept  and  Thee  forgot; 
One  said  he  knew  Thee  not, 

Peter  and  James  and  John, 
The  sad  tale  runneth  on — 
I  am  that  one,  the  three; 

Thus  haye  I  done  to  Thee, 
ill 


Under  a  garden  wall, 

I  lay  at  evenfall; 

I  waked.     Thou  calledst  me; 

I  had  not  watched  with  Thee. 

Peter  and  James  and  John, 
The  sad  tale  runneth  on — 
By  the  priest's  fagot  hot, 
I  said  I  knew  Thee  not. 

The  little  maid  spake  out: 
"With  Him  thou  wentest  about." 
"This  Man  I  never  met—" 
I  hear  the  cock  crow  yet. 

Good  Friday 

LlZETTE   WOODWORTH   REESE 


And  vrith  him  they  crucify  two  robbers, 
one  on  his  right  hand,  and  one  on  his  left. 

Three  crosses  rose  on  Calvary  against  the  iron  sky, 
Each  with  its  living  burden,  each  with  its  human  cry. 
And  all  the  ages  watched  there,  and  there  were  you 
and  I. 

One  bore  the  God  incarnate,  reviled  by  man's  disdain, 
Who  through  the  woe  he  suffered  for  our  eternal  gain, 
With  joy  of  infinite  loving  assuaged  his  infinite  pain. 

112 


On  one  the  thief  repentant  conquered  his  cruel  doom, 
Who  called  at  last  on  Christ  and  saw  his  glory  through 

the  gloom. 
For  him  after  the  torment  souls  of  the  blest  made  room. 

And  one  the  unrepentant  bore,  who  his  harsh  fate  defied. 
To  him,  the  child  of  darkness,  all  mercy  was  denied; 
Nailed  by  his  brothers  on  the  cross,  he  cursed  his  God 
and  died. 

Ah,  Christ,  who  met  in  Paradise  him  who  had  eyes 

to  see, 

Didst  thou  not  greet  the  other  in  hell's  black  agony? 
And  if  he  knew  thy  face,  Lord,  what  did  he  say  to 
thee? 

The  Thief  on  the  Cross 

HARRIET  MONROE 


And  the  glory  which  thou  hast  given  me 

I  have  given  unto  them;  that  they  may  be  one, 

even  as  we  are  one. 

Thanks  to  Saint  Matthew,  who  had  been 
At  mass-meetings  in  Palestine, 
We  know  whose  side  was  spoken  for 
When  Comrade  Jesus  had  the  floor. 

"Where  sore  they  toil  and  hard  they  lie, 
Among  the  great  unwashed  dwell  I; — 
The  tramp,  the  convict,  I  am  he; 

Cold-shoulder  him,  cold-shoulder  me." 
113 


By  Dives'  door,  with  thoughtful  eye, 
He  did  to-morrow  prophesy; — 
"The  kingdom's  gate  is  low  and  small; 
The  rich  can  scarce  wedge  through  at  all." 

"A  dangerous  man,"  said  Caiaphas; 
"An  ignorant  demagogue,  alas! 
Friend  of  low  women,  it  is  he 
Slanders  the  upright  Pharisee." 

For  law  and  order,  it  was  plain, 
For  Holy  Church,  he  must  be  slain. 
The  troops  were  there  to  awe  the  crowd, 
And  violence  was  not  allowed. 

Their  clumsy  force  with  force  to  foil 
His  strong,  clean  hands  he  would  not  soil. 
He  saw  their  childishness  quite  plain 
Between  the  lightnings  of  his  pain. 

Between  the  twilights  of  his  end, 
He  made  his  fellow-felon  friend; 
With  swollen  tongue  and  blinding  eyes, 
Invited  him  to  Paradise. 

Ah,  let  no  local  him  refuse! 
Comrade  Jesus  hath  paid  his  dues. 
Whatever  other  be  debarred, 
Comrade  Jesus  hath  his  red  card. 

Comrade  Jesus 

SARA  N.  CLEGHORN 
114 


Verily  I  say  unto  you, 

that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me. 

Mary,  the  Christ  long  slain,  passed  silently, 
Following  the  children  joyously  astir 
Under  the  cedrus  and  the  olive-tree, 
Pausing  to  let  their  laughter  float  to  her. 
Each  voice  an  echo  of  a  voice  more  dear, 
She  saw  a  little  Christ  in  every  face; 
When  lo,  another  woman,  gliding  near, 
Yearned  o'er  the  tender  life  that  filled  the  place. 
And  Mary  sought  the  woman's  hand  and  spoke: 
"I  know  thee  not,  yet  know  thy  memory  tossed 
With  all  a  thousand  dreams  their  eyes  evoke 
Who  bring  to  thee  a  child  beloved  and  lost. 

"I,  too,  have  rocked  my  little  one. 

O  He  was  fair! 

Yea,  fairer  than  the  fairest  sun, 

And  like  its  rays  through  amber  spun 

His  sun-bright  hair. 

Still  I  can  see  it  shine  and  shine." 

"Even  so,"  the  woman  said,  "was  mine." 

"His  ways  were  ever  darling  ways," — 

And  Mary  smiled, — 

"So  soft,  so  clinging!     Glad  relays 

Of  love  were  all  His  precious  days. 

My  little  child! 

My  infinite  star!    my  music  fled!" 

"Even  so  was  mine,"  the  woman  said. 
115 


Then  whispered  Mary:   "Tell  me,  thou, 

Of  thine."    And  she: 

"O  mine  was  rosy  as  a  bough 

Blooming  with  roses,  sent,  somehow, 

To  bloom  for  me! 

His  balmy  fingers  left  a  thrill 

Within  my  breast  that  warms  me  still." 

Then  gazed  she  down  some  wilder,  darker  hour, 
And  said,  when  Mary  questioned,  knowing  not: 
"Who  art  thou,  mother  of  so  sweet  a  flower?" 
"I  am  the  mother  of  Iscariot." 

Motherhood 

AGNES  LEE 


And  the  women,  who  had  come  with  him 
out  of  Galilee,  followed  after, 
and  beheld  the  tomb. 

There  was  a  trampling  of  horses  from  Calvary 
Where  the  armed  Romans  rode  from  the  mountain 
side; 

Yet  riding  they  dreamed  of  the  soul  that  could  ride  free 
Out  of  the  bruised  breast  and  the  arms  nailed  wide. 

There  was  a  trampling  of  horses  from  Calvary, 
And  the  long  spears  glittered  in  the  night; 

Yet  riding  they  dreamed  of  the  will  that  dared  to  be, 
When  the  head  fell  and  the  heavens  were  rent  with 
light. 

116 


The  eyes  that  closed  over  sleep  like  folded  wings 
And  the  sad  mouth  that  kissed  death  with  the  cry 

"Father,  forgive  them," — silently  these  things, 
They  remembered,  riding  down  from  Calvary. 

And  Joseph,  when  the  sick  body  was  lowered  slowly, 
Folded  it  in  a  white  cloth  without  seam, 

The  indomitable  brow,  inflexible  and  holy, 

And  the  sad  breast  that  held  the  immortal  dream, 

And  the  feet  that  could  not  walk,  and  the  pierced 

hand, 
And  the  arms  that  held  the  whole  world  in  their 

embrace; 

But  Mary,  beside  the   cross-tree,  could   not   under 
stand, 
Looking  upon  the  tired,  human  face. 

The  Mother 
JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 


Henceforth  all  generations 
shall  call  me  blessed. 

Mary  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 

"Now,  why  hast  Thou  left  Thy  play?" 

"But  to  touch  thy  hands  with  my  hands,  Mother, 
Lest  sometime  there  comes  a  day 

When  I  may  not  close  them  within  my  own, 
Though  they  fall  as  hurt  doves  may." 

117 


Mary  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 

"Now  blind  wouldst  Thou  have  me  go 

That  mine  eyes  Thou  hast  closed  with  kisses  twain?" 
"My  Mother,  I  may  not  know, 

But  I  fear  a  day  when  they  look  on  pain 
And  I  may  not  close  them  so." 

Mary  smiled  on  her  little  Son, 

Close,  close  in  her  arms  pressed  He; 
"O  Mother,  my  Mother,  my  heart  on  thine 

Lest  sometime  a  day  may  be 
When  I  may  not  comfort  or  make  it  whole, 

Though  it  break  for  love  of  me." 

Now  think  you  that  on  Calvary  hill 

Whereon  her  Son  was  slain 
She  felt  upon  her  eyes  that  touch 

That  veiled  them  unto  pain, 
And  filled  her  groping  hands,  and  bade 

Her  torn  heart  beat  again? 

The  Ballad  of  the  Comforting 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


And  7,  if  I  be  lifted  from  the  earth, 
will  draw  all  men  unto  myself. 

The  eve  of  Golgotha  had  come, 

And  Christ  lay  shrouded  in  the  garden  Tomb; 

Among  the  olives,  oh,  how  dumb, 

How  sad  the  sun  incarnadined  the  gloom! 

118 


The  hill  grew  dim — the  pleading  cross 
Reached  empty  arms  toward  the  closing  gate. 
Jerusalem,  oh,  count  thy  loss! 
Oh,  hear  ye!  hear  ye!  ere  it  be  too  late! 


Reached  bleeding  arms — but  how  in  vain! 
The  murmurous  multitude  within  the  wall 
Already  had  forgot  His  pain — 
To-morrow  would  forget  the  cross — and  all! 


They  knew  not  Rome,  before  its  sign, 

Bending  her  brow  bound  with  the  nation's  threne, 

Would  sweep  all  lands  from  Nile  to  Rhine 

In  servitude  unto  the  Nazarene. 


Nor  knew  that  millions  would  forsake 
Ancestral  shrines  great  with  the  glow  of  time, 
And  lifting  up  its  token  shake 

with  thrill  of  love  or  battle's  crime. 


With  empty  arms  aloft  it  stood: 

Ah,  Scribe  and  Pharisee,  ye  builded  well! 

The  cross  emblotted  with  His  blood 

Mounts,  highest  Hope  of  men,  against  earth's  hell! 

The  Empty  Cross 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 
119 


Ye  shall  be  sorrowful,  but  your  sorrow 
shall  be  turned  into  joy. 

There  is  a  legend  somewhere  told 
Of  how  the  skylark  came  of  old 

To  the  dying  Saviour's  cross, 
And  circling  round  that  form  of  pain 
Poured  forth  a  wild,  lamenting  strain, 

As  if  for  human  loss. 

Pierced  by  those  accents  of  despair, 
Upon  the  tiny  mourner  there 

Turning  his  fading  eyes, 
The  Saviour  said,  "Dost  thou  so  mourn 
And  is  thy  fragile  breast  so  torn, 

That  man,  thy  brother,  dies? 

"O'er  all  the  world  uplifted  high, 
We  are  alone  here,  thou  and  I; 

And  near  to  heaven  and  thee 
I  bless  thy  pity-guided  wings! 
I  bless  thy  voice— the  last  that  sings 

Love's  requiem  for  me. 

"Sorrow  no  more  shall  fill  thy  song; 

These  frail  and  fluttering  wings  grown  strong, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  fly 
Earth's  captive — nay,  but  boldly  dare 
The  azure  vault,  and  upward  bear 

Thy  transports  to  the  sky!" 
120 


Soon  passed  the  Saviour;  but  the  lark, 
Close  hovering  near  Him  in  the  dark, 

Could  not  his  grief  abate; 
And  nigh  the  watchers  at  the  tomb, 
Still  mourned  through  days  of  grief  and  gloom, 

With  note  disconsolate. 

But  when  to  those  sad  mourners  came, 

In  rose  and  amethyst  and  flame, 
The  Dawn  Miraculous, 

Song  in  which  sorrow  had  no  part 

Burst  from  the  lark's  triumphant  heart- 
Sweet  and  tumultuous! 

An  instant,  as  with  rapture  blind, 
He  faltered;  then,  his  Lord  to  find, 

Straight  to  the  ether  flew, — 
Rising  where  falls  no  human  tear, 
Singing  where  still  his  song  we  hear 

Piercing  the  upper  blue! 

The  Lark 
FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 


I  am  the  Way. 


Three  roads  led  out  of  Calvary. 

The  first  was  broad  and  straight, 
That  Pilate  and  great  Caiaphas 

Might  ride  thereon  in  state. 


121 


The  second  was  the  felons'  road, 

Cruel  and  hard  to  tread 
For  those  who  bore  the  cross's  load, 

For  those  whose  footsteps  bled. 

The  third  road  slunk  through  mean  defiles, 

Fearing  the  open  sky; 
And  Judas  crept  the  dreadful  miles 

To  Calvary  thereby. 

The  highroad  up  to  Calvary 

Was  blotted  from  the  land; 
Where  Judas  hid,  the  jackal  cries 

By  thorn-cursed  drifts  of  sand. 

But  that  poor  road  the  felons  went — 

How  fair  it  now  appears, 
Smoothed  wide  by  myriads  penitent 

And  flower-set  by  their  tears! 

The  Blessed  Road 
CHARLES  BUXTON  GOING 


There  was  the  true  light,  even  the  light 
which  lighteth  every  man. 

Out  of  the  dark  we  come,  nor  know 

Into  what  outer  dark  we  go. 

Wings  sweep  across  the  stars  at  night, 

Sweep  and  are  lost  in  flight, 

And  down  the  star-strewn  windy  lanes  the  sky 

IS  empty  as  before  the  wings  went  by. 
122 


We  dare  not  lift  our  eyes,  lest  we  should  see 
The  utter  quiet  of  eternity; 
So,  in  the  end,  we  come  to  this: 
Christ-Mary's  kiss. 

We  cannot  brook  the  wide  sun's  might, 
We  are  alone  and  chilled  by  night; 
We  stand,  atremble  and  afraid, 
Upon  the  small  worlds  we  have  made; 
Fearful,  lest  all  our  poor  control 
Should  turn  and  tear  us  to  the  soul; 
A  dread,  lest  we  should  be  denied 
The  price  we  hold  our  ragged  pride; 
So  in  the  end  we  cast  them  by 
For  a  gaunt  cross  against  the  sky. 

To  those  who  question  is  the  fine  reward 

Of  the  brave  heart  who  fights  with  broken  sword 

In  the  dark  night  against  an  unseen  enemy; 

There  is  not  any  hope  of  victory. 

While  sweat  is  sweet  and  earthly  ways  and  toil, 

The  touch  of  shoulders,  scent  of  new-turned  soil, 

Striving  itself  amid  the  thrusting  throng, 

And  love  that  comes  with  white  hands  strong; 

But  on  itself  the  long  path  turns  again, 

To  find  at  length  the  hill  of  pain. 

Such  only  do  we  know  and  see; 
Starlight  and  evening  mystery, 
Sunlight  on  peaks  and  dust-red  plain, 
Thunder  and  the  quick  breath  of  rain, 
123 


Stirring  of  fields  and  all  the  lovely  things 

That  season  after  season  brings; 

Young  dawn  and  quiet  night 

And  the  earth's  might. 

But  all  our  wisdom  and  our  wisdom's  plan 

End  in  the  lonely  figure  of  a  Man. 

Via  Crucis 
MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 


CHRIST   TRIUMPHANT 


And  they  shall  kill  him, 

and  the  third  day  he  shall  be  raised  up. 

It  was  a  night  of  calls  and  far  replies, 
A  night  of  trembling  for  that  Serpent  head 
In  gulfs  that  were  before  the  eldest  dead — 
A  night  of  whispering  haste  along  the  skies, 
Prayer,  and  a  wondering  down  of  seraph  eyes; 
While  stilled  Jerusalem,  washed  in  the  moon's  light, 
Lay  like  a  brood  of  sepulchers,  ghost-white. 

The  dark  was  dying  silverly,  that  strange, 
Still  hour  when  Earth  is  falling  toward  the  day — 
That  hour  of  spacious  silence  and  delay 
When  all  things  poise  upon  the  hinge  of  change. 
The  guardsmen  had  grown  silent  on  their  round, 
Their  fire  was  sinking,  when  a  crash  of  sound — 
Darkness — a  reel  of  Earth — a  rush  of  light — 
Cleft  rocks — then  scent  of  aloes  on  the  night! 

Their  faces  turned  to  faces  of  the  dead, 

Their  spears  fell  clamoring  terribly  as  they  fled. 

And  He  stood  risen  in  the  guarded  place, 

With  empire  in  his  gesture — on  his  face 
127 


The  hush  of  muted  music  and  the  might 
That  drew  the  stars  down  on  the  ancient  night. 

Tall  in  the  first-light,  mystical  and  pale, 
He  stood  as  one  who  dares  and  cannot  fail, 
As  some  high  conscript  of  the  Bright  Abodes, 
As  one  still  called  to  travel  on  wild  roads 
In  Love's  divine  adventure — his  white  face 
Hushed  with  heroic  purpose  for  the  race; 
Yet  wistful  of  the  men  who  should  deny  Him, 
And  wistful  of  the  years  that  should  belie  Him. 

With  peace  of  heart  the  blind  world  could  not  break, 
He  took  a  path  the  young  leaves  keep  awake. 
Glad  of  the  day  come  back  and  loving  all, 
He  passed  across  the  morning,  felt  the  cool, 
Sweet,  kindling  air  blown  upward  from  the  pool. 
A  burning  bush  was  reddening  by  the  wall; 
An  oleander  bough  was  full  of  stirs, 
Struck  by  the  robes  of  unseen  messengers. 

The  hills  broke  purpling,  as  the  sun's  bright  edge 
Pushed  slowly  up  behind  a  rocky  ledge: 
The  hovering  dome  of  the  Temple,  gray  and  cold, 
Burned  out  with  sudden,  unexpected  gold. 
A  light  wind  silvered  up  the  olive  slope, 
And  all  the  world  was  wonder  and  wild  hope! 

The  Garden  of  the  Sepulcher 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 

128 


Said  I  not  unto  thee,  that,  if  thou  believedst, 
thou  shouldst  see  the  glory  of  God? 

Christ  said  to  Martha  by  her  brother's  grave, 
I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life — 
And  with  what  troubled  thoughts  her  mind  was  rife! 

The  life,  He  said,  and  yet  He  freely  gave 

His  life,  and  saving  others  would  not  save 
Himself.     The  resurrection?     Chuza's  wife 
Had  seen  Him  in  the  tomb — at  end  was  strife, 

And  o'er  her  anguish  swept,  a  mighty  wave. 

And  yet  her  firm  assurance  kept  her  faith, 
And  her  reply,  the  fervent  I  believe, — 
Had  not  His  voice  raised  Lazarus  from  death, 

Had  not  the  grave  released  its  four  days'  prey? 
A  foretaste  of  the  resurrection  day 
She  had  to  bid  her  wait,  and  not  to  grieve. 

Martha 
CAROLINE  HAZARD 


Father,  forgive  them; 

for  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

I  was  a  Roman  soldier  in  my  prime; 
Now  age  is  on  me  and  the  yoke  of  time. 
I  saw  your  Risen  Christ,  for  I  am  he 
Who  reached  the  hyssop  to  Him  on  the  tree; 
And  I  am  one  of  two  who  watched  beside 
The  Sepulcher  of  Him  we  crucified. 
129 


All  that  last  night  I  watched  with  sleepless  eyes; 
Great  stars  arose  and  crept  across  the  skies. 
The  world  was  all  too  still  for  mortal  rest, 
For  pitiless  thoughts  were  busy  in  the  breast. 
The  night  was  long,  so  long,  it  seemed  at  last 
I  had  grown  old  and  a  long  life  had  passed. 
Far  off,  the  hills  of  Moab,  touched  with  light, 
Were  swimming  in  the  hollow  of  the  night. 
I  saw  Jerusalem  all  wrapped  in  cloud, 
Stretched  like  a  dead  thing  folded  in  a  shroud. 

Once  in  the  pauses  of  our  whispered  talk 
I  heard  a  something  on  the  garden  walk. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  crisp  leaf  lightly  stirred — 
Perhaps  the  dream-note  of  a  waking  bird. 
Then  suddenly  an  angel  burning  white 
Came  down  with  earthquake  in  the  breaking  light, 
And  rolled  the  great  stone  from  the  Sepulcher, 
Mixing  the  morning  with  a  scent  of  myrrh. 
And  lo,  the  Dead  had  risen  with  the  day: 
The  Man  of  Mystery  had  gone  his  way! 

Years  have  I  wandered,  carrying  my  shame; 
Now  let  the  tooth  of  time  eat  out  my  name. 
For  we,  who  all  the  wonder  might  have  told, 
Kept  silence,  for  our  mouths  were  stopt  with  gold. 

A  Guard  of  the  Sepulcher 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 

130 


Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Mary! 

At  dawn  she  sought  the  Saviour  slain, 

To  kiss  the  spot  where  He  had  lain 

And  weep  warm  tears,  like  spring-time  rain; 

When  lo,  there  stood,  unstained  of  death, 
A  man  that  spoke  with  low  sweet  breath; 
And  "Master!"  Mary  answereth. 

From  out  the  far  and  fragrant  years 
How  sweeter  than  the  songs  of  seers 
That  tender  offering  of  tears! 

Mary  Magdalen 

RICHARD  BURTON 


She  turneih  and  saith  unto  him,  Rabboni, 
which  is  to  say,  Teacher. 

Rabboni,  in  the  garden  sweet 
Kneel  I  enraptured  at  Thy  feet. 
Thyself  transfigured  walkest  here. 
Might  such  a  change  in  me  appear! 
Shall  death  alone  illumine  me? 
Nay,  Soul,  that  were  a  travesty. 
Only  living  man  can  praise; 
Then  touch  me  with  Thy  living  rays. 

Rabboni 
BARBARA  PEATTIE  ERSKINE 

131 


Mary  Magdalene  cometh  and  telleth  the  disciples, 
I  have  seen  the  Lord. 

She  brake  the  box,  and  all  the  house  was  filled 
With  waftures  from  the  fragrant  store  thereof, 

While  at  His  feet  a  costlier  rose  distilled 
The  bruised  balm  of  penitential  love. 

And  lo,  as  if  in  recompense  of  her, 

Bewildered  in  the  lingering  shades  of  night, 

He  breaks  anon  the  sealed  sepulcher, 

And  fills  the  world  with  rapture  and  with  light. 

The  Recompense 

J.  B.  TABB 


And  your  heart  shall  rejoice, 

and  your  joy  no  one  takcth  away  from  you. 

What  though  the  Flowers  in  Joseph's  Garden  grew 
Of  rarest  perfume  and  of  fairest  hue, 
That  morn  when  Magdalene  hastened  through 
Its  fragrant,  silent  paths? 

She  caught  no  scent  of  budding  almond  tree; 
Her  eyes,  tear-blinded  still  from  Calvary, 
Saw  neither  lily  nor  anemone — 

Naught  save  the  Sepulcher. 
132 


But  when  the  Master  whispered  "Mary,"  lo! 
The  Tomb  was  hid;   the  Garden  all  ablow; 
And  burst  in  bloom  the  Rose  of  Jericho — 
From  that  day  "Mary's  Flower." 

The  Sepulcher  in  the  Garden 

JOHN  FINLEY 


Was  not  our  heart  burning  within  us, 
while  he  spake  to  us  in  the  way  ? 

Triumphant  morn  whose  first  ray  had  such  might 
That  Life  and  Love,  which  passed  beyond  the  ken 
And  ministering  care  of  mortal  men, 

Upon  this  holy  day  could  reunite! 

O  Blessed  sun,  which  saw  the  wondrous  sight, 
The  glad  rebirth  of  primal  time,  as  when 
The  radiant  sons  of  morn  in  thousands  ten 

Rejoiced  at  that  great  word,  Let  there  be  light. 

The  first  word  when  the  tomb  was  newly  rent 
Was  to  a  grieving  woman  gently  said; 
With  two  sad  men  He  walked,  the  day  far  spent, 

And  how  their  heavy  hearts  within  them  burned 
As  comforted  into  the  inn  they  turned,  _ 
And  He  was  known  to  them  in  breaking  bread! 

Easter 
CAROLINE  HAZARD 

133 


/  ascend  unto  my  Father  and  your  Father, 
and  my  God  and  your  God. 

In  the  gray  dawn  they  left  Jerusalem, 
And  I  rose  up  to  follow  after  them. 
He  led  toward  Bethany  by  the  narrow  bridge 
Of  Kedron,  upward  to  the  olive  ridge. 
Once  on  the  camel  path  beyond  the  City, 
He  looked  back,  struck  at  heart  with  pain  and  pity- 
Looked  backward  from  the  two  lone  cedar  trees 
On  Olivet,  alive  to  every  breeze — 
Looked  in  a  rush  of  sudden  tears,  and  then 
Went  steadily  on,  never  to  turn  again. 

Near  the  green  quiets  of  a  little  wood 
The  Master  halted  silently  and  stood. 
The  figs  were  purpling,  and  a  fledgling  dove 
Had  fallen  from  a  windy  bough  above, 
And  lay  there  crying  feebly  by  a  thorn, 
Its  little  body  bruised  and  forlorn. 
He  stept  aside  a  moment  from  the  rest 
And  put  it  safely  back  into  the  nest. 

Then  mighty  words  did  seem  to  rise  in  Him 
And  die  away;  even  as  white  vapors  swim 
A  moment  on  Mount  Carmel's  purple  steep, 
And  then  are  blown  back  rainless  to  the  deep. 
And  once  He  looked  up  with  a  little  start: 
Perhaps  some  loved  name  passed  across  his  heart, 
Some  memory  of  a  road  in  Galilee, 
Or  old  familiar  rock  beside  the  Sea. 

134 


And  suddenly  there  broke  upon  our  sight 
A  rush  of  angels  terrible  with  light — 
The  high  same  host  the  Shepherds  saw  go  by, 
Breaking  the  starry  night  with  lyric  cry— 
A  rush  of  angels,  wistful  and  aware, 
That  shook  a  thousand  colors  on  the  air — 
Colors  that  made  a  music  to  the  eye — 
Glories  of  lilac,  azure,  gold,  vermilion, 
Blown  from  the  air-hung  delicate  pavilion. 

And  now  his  face  grew  bright  with  luminous  will: 
The  great  grave  eyes  grew  planet-like  and  still. 
Yea,  in  that  moment,  all  his  face,  fire-white, 
Seemed  struck  out  of  imperishable  light. 
Delicious  apprehension  shook  his  spirit, 
With  song  so  still  that  only  the  heart  could  hear  it. 
A  sense  of  something  sacred,  starry,  vast, 
Greater  than  earth,  across  his  spirit  passed. 

Then  with  a  stretching  of  his  hands  to  bless, 
A  last  unspeakable  look  that  was  caress, 
Up  through  the  vortice  of  bright  cherubim 
He  rose  until  the  august  form  grew  dim — 
Up  through  the  blue  dome  of  the  day  ascended, 
By  circling  nights  of  seraphim  befriended. 
He  was  uplifted  from  us,  and  was  gone 
Into  the  darkness  of  another  dawn. 

The  Ascension 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 


WHAT    THINK    YE    OF 
CHRIST? 


And  we  have  believed  and  know 
that  thou  art  the  Holy  One  of  God. 

If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  man — 

And  only  a  man, — I  say 
That  of  all  mankind  I  cleave  to  him 

And  to  him  will  I  cleave  alway. 

If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  god, — 
And  the  only  God, — I  swear 

I  will  follow  Him  through  heaven  and  hell, 
The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air! 

The  Song  of  a  Heathen  (Sojourning  in  Galilee,  A.D.  32) 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


For  we  did  not  follow  cunningly  devised  fables, 
but  we  were  eye-witnesses  of  his  majesty. 

Oh  He  who  walked  with  fishermen 

Was  man  of  men  in  Galilee; 
He  told  us  endless  wonder-tales, 

His  laugh  was  hale  and  free. 
139 


The  water  changed  He  into  wine 
To  please  a  poor  man's  company; 

I  saw  Him  walk  one  wretched  night 
Upon  a  troubled  sea. 

And  when  the  rabble  cried  for  blood, 

I  saw  him  nailed  upon  a  tree; 
He  showed  how  a  brave  man  could  die; 

The  Prince  of  men  was  He. 

And  rough  men,  we,  who  never  wept, 

Wept  when  they  nailed  Him  to  the  tree; 

Oh,  He  was  more  than  man,  who  walked 
With  us  in  Galilee. 

A  Fisherman  Speaks,  Anno  Domini,  thirty-three 

SCHARMEL    IRIS 


To  him  be  the  glory 

both  now  and  forevermore,  Amen. 

Ha'  we  lost  the  goodliest  fere  o'  all 
For  the  priests  and  the  gallows  tree? 
Aye  lover  he  was  of  brawny  men, 
O'  ships  and  the  open  sea. 

When  they  came  wi'  a  host  to  take  Our  Man 

His  smile  was  good  to  see. 

"First  let  these  go!"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 

"Or  I'll  see  ye  damned,"  says  he. 
140 


Aye  he  sent  us  out  through  the  crossed  high  spears 
And  the  scorn  of  his  laugh  rang  free, 
"Why  took  ye  not  me  when  I  walked  about 
Alone  in  the  town?"  says  he. 

Oh  we  drank  his  "Hale"  in  the  good  red  wine 

When  we  last  made  company, 

No  capon  priest  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 

But  a  man  o'  men  was  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  drive  a  hundred  men 
Wi'  a  bundle  o'  cords  swung  free, 
That  they  took  the  high  and  holy  house 
For  their  pawn  and  treasury. 

They'll  no'  get  him  a'  in  a  book,  I  think, 
Though  they  write  it  cunningly; 
No  mouse  of  the  scrolls  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
But  aye  loved  the  open  sea. 

If  they  think  they  ha'  snared  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  to  the  last  degree. 
"I'll  go  to  the  feast,"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Though  I  go  to  the  gallows  tree. 

"Ye  ha'  seen  me  heal  the  lame  and  blind, 
And  wake  the  dead,"  says  he, 
"Ye  shall  see  one  thing  to  master  all: 
'Tis  how  a  brave  man  dies  on  the  tree." 
141 


A  son  of  God  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
That  bade  us  his  brothers  be. 
I  ha*  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men. 
I  have  seen  him  upon  the  tree. 

He  cried  no  cry  when  they  drave  the  nails 
And  the  blood  gushed  hot  and  free, 
The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue 
But  never  a  cry  cried  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men 

On  the  hills  o'  Galilee, 

They  whined  as  he  walked  out  calm  between, 

Wi'  his  eyes  like  the  gray  o'  the  sea. 

Like  the  sea  that  brooks  no  voyaging 
With  the  winds  unleashed  and  free, 
Like  the  sea  that  he  cowed  at  Genseret 
Wi'  twey  words  spoke*  suddently. 

A  master  o'  men  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
A  mate  of  the  wind  and  sea; 
If  they  think  they  ha'  slain  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  eternally. 

I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey-comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree. 

Ballad  of  the  Goodly  Fere 
Simon  Zelotes  Speaketh  This  Somewhat  after  the  Crucifixion 

EZRA  POUND 

142 


For  to  me  to  live  is  Christ. 

How  long  have  you  been  waiting?     Not  so  long? 

I'm  glad  of  that.     You  found  the  place  at  once. 

Well,  there's  the  Campus  Martius,  when  you're  there 

You  see  above  this  Collis  Hortulorum, 

A  good  place  for  two  men  like  us  to  meet: 

Here's  where  luxurious  souls  have  their  abodes. 

That's  Sallust's  garden  there.     They  do  not  care 

So  much  about  us  as  some  others  do. 

There  is  a  tolerance  comes  from  being  rich, 

An  urbane  soul  is  fashioned  by  a  villa. 

Our  faith  is  not  to  these  a  wicked  thing, 

A  deadly  superstition  as  some  deem  it. 

But,  Mark,  my  son,  there's  Rome  below  you  there — 

What  temples,  arches,  under  the  full  moon! 

Here  let  us  sit  beside  this  chestnut  tree, 

And  while  the  soft  wind  blows  out  of  the  sea 

Let's  finish  up  our  talks.     You  must  know  all 

Wherewith  to  write  the  story  ere  I  die 

Beneath  the  wrath  of  Nero.     See  that  light, 

Faint  like  a  little  candle — I  passed  there. 

That's  one  of  our  poor  men,  they  make  us  lamps 

Wherewith  to  light  the  streets  and  Nero's  gardens. 

We  shall  be  lamps  they'll  wish  to  snuff  in  time. 

We  met  to-night  at  one  Silvanus'  house. 

And  I  was  telling  them  about  the  night 

When  in  Gethsemane  you  followed  Him, 

Having  a  cloth  about  your  naked  body. 

And  how  you  laid  hold  on  him,  left  the  cloth 

And  fled.     But  when  you  write  this,  you  can  say 

143 


"A  certain  young  man,"  leaving  out  your  name, 
You  may  not  wish  to  have  it  known  'twas  you 
Who  ran  away,  as  I  would  like  to  hide 
How  I  fell  into  sleep  and  failed  to  watch, 
And  afterwards  declared  I  knew  Him  not: 
But  as  for  me,  omit  no  thing.     The  world 
Will  gain  by  seeing  me  rise  out  of  weakness 
To  strength,  and  out  of  fear  to  boldness.     Time 
Has  wrought  his  wonders  in  me,  I  am  rock, 
Let  hell  beat  on  me,  I  shall  stand  from  now. 

Then  don't  forget  the  first  man  that  He  healed. 

There's  deep  significance  in  this,  my  son, 

That  first  of  all  He'd  take  an  unclean  spirit 

And  cast  it  out.     Then  second  was  my  mother 

Cured  of  her  fever,  just  as  you  might  say: 

Be  rid  of  madness,  things  that  tear  and  plague, 

Then  cool  you  of  the  fever  of  vain  life. 

But  don't  forget  to  write  how  he  would  say 

"Tell  no  man  of  this,"  say  that  and  no  more. 

Though  I  may  think  he  said  it  lest  the  crowds 

That    followed    him    would    take    his    strength    for 

healing, 

And  leave  no  strength  for  words,  let  be  and  write 
"Tell  no  man  of  this"  simply.     For  you  see 
These  madmen  quieted,  these  lepers  cleaned 
Had  soon  to  die,  all  now  are  dead,  perhaps. 
And  with  them  ends  their  good.    But  what  he  said 
Remains  for  generations  yet  to  come,  with  power 
To  heal  and  heal.     My  son,  preserve  your  notes, 

Of  what  I've  told  you,  even  above  your  life. 

144 


Make  many  copies  lest  one  script  be  lost. 
I  shall  not  to  another  tell  it  all 
As  I  have  told  it  you. 

But  as  for  me 

What  merit  have  I  that  I  saw  and  said 
"Thou  art  the  Christ"?     One  sees  the  thing  he  sees. 
That  is  a  matter  of  the  eye — behold 
What  is  the  eye? 


Let's  think  of  eyes  this  way: 
The  lawyers  said  there's  nothing  in  this  fellow. 
His  family  beheld  no  wonder  in  him. 
Have  Mary  Magdalen  and  I  invented 
These  words,  this  story? — who  are  we  to  do  so,- 
A  fallen  woman  and  a  fisherman! 
Or  did  this  happen?     Did  we  see  these  things? 
Did  Mary  see  him  risen  and  did  I? 


No,  Mark,  my  son,  this  is  the  truth,  so  write, 
Preserve  this  story  taken  from  my  lips. 
My  work  is  almost  done.     Rome  is  the  end 
Of  all  my  labors,  I  have  faith  The  Eye 
Will  give  me  other  eyes  for  other  worlds! 

Why  should  I  not  believe  this?  Not  all  seasons 

Are  for  unfolding.     In  the  winter  time 

You  cannot  see  the  miracle  of  birth, 

Of  germinating  seeds,  of  blossoming. 

Why  not  then  that  one  time  for  seeing  Death 

145 


Go  up  like  mist  before  the  rising  sun? 

And  in  this  single  instance  of  our  Lord 

Arising  from  the  grave,  see  all  men  rise, 

And  all  men's  souls  discovered  in  his  soul, 

That  quality  and  essence,  strength  made  clear? 

And  why  not  I  the  seer  of  these  things? 

Why  should  there  be  another  and  not  I? 

And  I  declare  to  you  that  untold  millions 

In  centuries  untold  will  live  and  die 

By   these  words  which    you    write,   as   I   have   told 

them. 

And  nation  after  nation  will  be  moulded, 
As  heated  wax  is  moulded,  by  these  words. 
And  spirits  in  their  inmost  power  will  feel 
Change  and  regeneration  through  them — well,  what 

then? 

Do  you  say  God  is  living,  that  this  world, 
These  constellations  move  by  law,  that  all 
This  miracle  of  life  and  light  is  held 
In  harmony,  and  that  the  soul  of  man 
Moves  not  in  order,  but  that  it's  allowed 
To  prove  an  anarch  to  itself,  sole  thing 
That  turns  upon  itself,  sole  thing  that's  shown 
The  path  that  leads  no  whither?  is  allowed 
To  feed  on  falsehood?   that  it's  allowed 
To  wander  lawless  to  its  ruin,  fooled 
By  what  it  craves,  by  what  it  feels,  by  eyes 
That  swear  the  truth  of  what  they  see?    by  words 
Which  you  will  write  from  words  I  have  affirmed? 
And  do  you  say  that  Life  shall  prove  the  foe 

Of  life,  and  Law  of  law?     Or  do  you  say 

146 


The  child's  eyes  see  reality  which  see 

The  poppy  blossoms  or  the  mother's  breast, 

And  this  Rome  and  these  stars  do  not  exist 

Because  the  child's  eyes  cannot  compass  them, 

And  get  their  image?    Shall  we  trust  our  vision 

Mounting  to  higher  things,  or  only  trust 

Those  things  which  all  have  seen  except  the  souls 

Who  have  not  soared,  or  risen  to  the  gift 

Of  seeing  what  seemed  walking  trees  grow  clear 

As  men  or  angels?    No,  it  cannot  be. 

Man's  soul,  the  chiefest  flower  of  all  we  know, 

Is  not  the  toy  of  Malice  or  of  Sport. 

It  is  not  set  apart  to  be  betrayed, 

Or  gulled  to  its  undoing,  left  to  dash 

Its  hopeless  head  against  this  rock's  exception, 

No  water  for  its  thirst,  no  Life  to  feed  it, 

No  law  to  guide  it,  though  this  universe 

Is  under  Law,  no  God  to  mark  its  steps, 

Except  the  God  of  worlds  and  suns  and  stars, 

Who  loves  it  not,  loves  worlds  and  suns  and  stars, 

And  them  alone,  and  leaves  the  soul  to  pass 

Unfathered — lets  me  have  a  madman's  dream 

And  gives  it  such  reality  that  I 

Take  fire  and  light  the  world,  convincing  eyes 

Left  foolish  to  believe.     It  cannot  be  ... 

Go  write  what  I  have  told  you,  come  what  will 
I'm  going  to  the  catacombs  to  pray. 

The  Gospel  of  Mark 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

147 


And  not  a  few  of  them  that  practised 
magical  arts,  brought  their  books  together, 
and  burned  them  in  the  sight  of  all. 

Hyacinthus,  your  money,  the  idol  you  ordered  is  finished. 
May  the  grace  of  Diana  be  with  you  in  strength  un- 
diminished. 

Behold  how  the  breast  of  it  glitters,  as  if  it  were  wrought 

in  with  stipples. 
The  Ephesian  goddess  is  Nature  and  these  are  her 

bountiful  nipples. 

So  then  do  I  fear  for  my  trade?    No,  never!    It's  past 

my  conceiving. 
There'll  be  work  for  the  artist  while  gods  change  to 

win  our  believing 

Come  on  then,  you  babblers  and  madmen  from  Jewry 

and  tell  us  and  show  us — 
Yes,  come  with  your  tumult  the  like  of  which  never 

was  known  in  Corinth  or  Troas. 

They  crowd  in  the  markets  and  temples  and  gabble 

a  story  that  palters. 
Well,  I  whistle  and  hammer  the  silver,  a  maker  of 

statues  and  altars. 

Who  says  I  am  wroth  lest  in  Samothrace,  Lystra  and 

Delos 
The  craft  of  the  maker  of  images  fail  through  the  speech 

of  these  fellows? 

148 


And  the  temple  of  Artemis  perish?     Oh,  well,  however 

they  hate  us 
Can  they  burn  it  as  once  it  was  burned  by  the  wretch 

Herostratus? 

But  we  built  it  again  and  carved  it  all  newly  in  beauty 

and  wonder — 
Destroy  it,  oh  man,  who  was  crazed  by  lightning  and 

roaring  of  thunder! 

Oh  virgin  Diana,  if  virgin,  what  virgin  whose  altar 

is  older! 
If  matron  what  breasts  hang  with  milk  for  the  eyes 

of  her  temples'  beholder! 

For  centuries  gone — when  these  Jews  prayed  to  ser 
pents  of  bronze  and  to  calves  that  were  golden, 

In  Ephesus,  Arcady,  Athens,  our  reverent  love  was 
beholden 

To  the  goddess  of  prophecy,  music,  the  lyre,  of  light, 
inspiration, 

Who  guarded  and  watches  the  city  and  lays  the  foun 
dation 

Of  nations  and  laws.     What  works  we  have  done,  yea 

still  we  would  heed  her — 
And  look  at  your  barbarous  ark  in   your  temple  of 

jewels  and  cedar! 

149 


What  is  our  pollution,  our  idols,  our  sacrificed  things 

which  are  strangled? 
I  ask  you  already  divided  in  turbulent  parties  who 

wrangled 

Concerning  salvation  of  God  to  the  faith  of  the  un- 

circumcision 
In  Cyprus  and  Paphos,  where  poets  of  love  keep  the 

Hellenic  vision. 

I  am  filled  with  my  loathing!     Oh  keep  me  a  Greek 

though  you  make  me  a  whoreson, 
When  the  worship  of  beauty  is  dead  you  may  pare 

off  my  foreskin. 

When  the  symbol  is  dead  which  I  mould  to  Diana 

our  goddess 
I'll  retire  to  the  country  of  Nod,  no  matter  where  Nod  is. 

It  will  live  when  your  temples  are  built,  if  any  are 

builded, 
And  Jesus  in  silver  is  nailed  on  a  cross  which  is  gilded. 

And  touching  this  thing  is  it  different  to  worship  a 

man  or  abstraction? 
Or  an  idol  of  silver  or  stone? — go  talk  to  your  spirit's 

distraction ! 

Areopagus  listened  to  Paul,  I  am  told,  for  Athens  is 
spending 

Her  time,  as  of  old,  in  weighing  new  things  and  at 
tending. 

150 


They  heard  him  in  silence!  Let  his  arguments  pass 
uncorrected — 

Why,  Plato  had  told  us  of  Er  from  the  dead  resur 
rected  ! 

Now,  mark  me!  For  showing  the  wisdom,  compas 
sion  of  poets  and  sages 

That  silence  like  lightning  will  aureole  Paul  to  the  end 
of  the  ages. 

Oh  Athens,  who  set  up  that  shrine,  do  you  think  it 

was  just  superstition 
Which  carved  for  all  passers  to  see  that  profoundest 

inscription : 

To  the  unknown  God?  Do  you  think  it  was  cow 
ardice  even? 

Make  altars  and  gods  as  you  will,  unknown  is  the 
planeted  heaven. 

And  we  who  are  richest  in  gods — have  exhausted  all 

thought  in  creating 
Both  symbols  and  shapes  for  interpreted  loving  and 

hating, 

Still  sense  the  Unknown,  though  in  blindness,  in  love 
as  in  duty 

Would  worship  it  most — the  Unknown  is  the  ulti 
mate  beauty. 

151 


Yes,  Athens  who  set  up  the  altar  and  chiseled  the 

worshipful  letters 
To  the  Unknown  God — what  ignorance  fastened  with 

fetters 

Did  you  loosen,  oh  wonder  of  Tarsus,  how  help  their 

unknowing 
Who  told  them  he  dwelt  not  in  temples,  nor  heeded 

the  flowing 

Of  prayers  from  men's  hearts — the  Giver  of  life  and 

of  all  things,  and  seeing 
He  is  lord  of  the  heavens,  in  whom  we  are  living  and 

having  our  being. 

So  quoting  our  poet  who   centuries   since  with  the 

monarch  Gonatus 
Lived  and  wrote  Phaenomena,  known  to  the  Greeks 

as  Aratus. 

And  yet,  Hyacinthus,  I  pity  this  Paul  for  profoundest 

compassion 
Of  Jesus  before  him.     This  sky  and  this  earth  I  can 

fashion 

Through  mystical  wonder  or  fear  to  the  Sphinx  or 

the  Minotaur  dreaded. 
There's  Persephone  dying  and  rising,   and   Cerberus 

the  dog  many-headed. 

152 


We  have  thought  it  all  through!     Yet  I  say  if  a  virtue 

Elysian 
Besides  in  the  doctrine  I'll  leave  off  the  goddess  Ephe- 

sian ; 

Sell  my  tools,  shut  my  shop,  worship  God  in  a  way 

that  is  safer, 
Make  the  Unknown  the  known!     Have  they  shown 

you  a  magical  wafer? 

The  Apology  of  Demetrius 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


He  that  loveth  his  life  shall  lose  it; 
but  he  that  hatcth  his  life  in  this  world 
shall  keep  it  unto  life  eternal. 

The  lengthening  shadows  of  the  cedar  trees 
Have  blended  into  twilight,  and  the  sun 
Has  plunged  in  glorious  gold  precipitance 
Beyond  the  dim  crest  of  the  western  hills, 
Bearing  with  it  the  day's  disquietudes; 
And  now  the  stars,  that  lamp  the  feet  of  God, 
Are  lighted,  and  night's  purple  silences 
Steal  gently  round  me  fraught  with  memories. 

'Twas  such  an  hour  as  this — long,  long  ago 
Yet  seeming  yesterday — he  came  to  me, 
My  little  son,  in  joyous  travail  born 
Out  there  across  the  hills  in  Bethlehem, 
153 


Where  we  who  journeyed  southward  to  be  taxed — 
Strangers  in  our  own  father's  land— had  found 
No  shelter  in  the  crowded  khan,  and  shared, 
Perforce,  a  grotto  with  the  stabled  kine. 

Ah,  how  it  all  conies  back  again  to  me! 

The  court-yard,  in  the  flickering  torchlight,  filled 

With  huddled  travelers  sleeping  'neath  the  sky, 

The  kneeling  camels  of  a  caravan, 

The  patient  asses  dozing  by  the  wall, 

A  smell  of  roasting  meat  at  little  fires, 

The  shouts  of  melon-sellers,  the  low  drone 

Of  reverend  elders  bending  at  their  prayers, 

Barking  of  street-dogs,  porters'  blasphemies, 

The  laughter  of  a  girl,  the  mellow  flute 

Of  some  rapt  lover,  and  the  tinkling  tune 

Of  sheep-bells  forward  moving  through  the  dark. 

And  then  the  hour  supreme,  wherein  my  soul 

Clomb  the  dark  pinnacles  of  pain,  and  death 

Grappled  with  life  through  whirling  seoned  years, 

But  fled  at  length  and  left  the  Miracle. 

They  laid  him  there  beside  me  on  the  hay, 
A  wee  pink  being  in  his  world's  first  sleep; 
My  arm  was  round  about  him  and  his  breath 
Was  warm  with  life  on  my  exultant  breast, 
And  they  whose  winged  watch  is  set  to  keep 
Ward  in  the  valley  lands  of  Heaven  looked  down 
Not  up  that  night  to  find  their  Paradise. 
All  weak  with  labor  and  soul's  happiness 
I  lay  beneath  the  sapphire  tent  of  skies, 
154 


And  in  my  heart  I  made  a  little  prayer 
Of  thanks  that  flew  up  to  the  throne  of  God 
On  swift  dove  pinions  of  unuttered  song; 
And  as  I  prayed,  lo,  upon  loops  of  stars 
Night's  velvet  curtainings  were  lifted  up, 
A  wondrous  light  turned  all  the  world  to  rose, 
And  down  the  skies  swept  singing  seraphim 
In  mighty  echoes  of  my  little  prayer. 

Oh,  can  it  be  that  threescore  years  have  marched 
In  troubled  caravan  across  the  waste 
Of  desert  life  since  then,  and  can  it  be 
That  I,  who  sit  here  in  mine  eventide, 
White  with  the  snows  of  sorrow  and  of  time, 
Was  once  a  bright  tressed  girl  who  heard  the  choirs 
Of  Heaven  rejoice  that  she  had  borne  a  son? 
Why,  I  can  feel  that  little  heart  beat  still 
Close  to  my  own,  the  touch  of  little  hands 
Warm  and  caressing  on  this  withered  breast; 
Still  I  can  hear  the  first  low  wail  that  marked 
His  woe's  beginning  and  the  tortured  path 
That  he  should  tread  in  mighty  gentleness, 
With  pain  and  anguish,  'til  His  love  supreme 
And  terrible  meekness,  overcoming  death, 
Should  lead  Him  conqueror  to  sit  with  God, 
Pleading  for  sinful  men  in  Paradise. 

To-day  I  stole  into  the  synagogue 
And  heard  a  rabbi  read  the  sacred  scroll: 
How  that  my  lord,  Isaiah,  said  of  old, 
Thy  Maker  is  thy  husband,  he  hath  called  thee 
155 


As  a  forsaken  woman,  spirit  grieved; 
God,  for  a  little  moment  hides  His  face 
From  thee,  but  with  His  loving  kindness  soon 
And  tender  mercies,  shall  He  gather  thee. 
Then  was  I  comforted,  and  peace  displaced 
The  turmoil  in  my  heart,  and  minded  me 
Of  that  great  promise  Gabriel  bore  from  God 
And  the  immeasurable  fruitage  of  His  word, 
The  life  and  death  and  glory  of  my  son. 

So  in  the  shades  of  life  and  night  I  sit, 

Under  the  sheltering  arbor  of  the  dark 

That  curves  above,  vined  o'er  with  trellised  stars, 

Waiting  my  spirit  bridegroom,  and  the  sound 

Of  that  loved  voice — long  silent  save  in  dreams — 

Calling  across  the  vibrant  firmament, 

0  Mary,  Mother  Mary,  come  to  Me. 

Mused  Mary  in  Old  Age 

GEORGE  M.  P.  BAIRD 


The  hour  cometh,  that  whosoever  killeth  you 
shall  think  that  he  offered  service  unto  God. 

The  monarch  looked  out  from  his  throne 
Where  the  Bosphorus  blends  with  the  Horn, 
And  he  saw  how  at  evening  and  morn 
The  people  would  prayerfully  bow 
To  figures  of  bronze  and  of  stone; 

And  he  cried,  as  he  smote  on  his  brow, 
156 


"They  worship  the  image  alone; 
Forgot  is  the  Godhead  behind. 
Their  prayers  are  but  words  on  the  wind 
That  hither  and  thither  are  blown." 

Then  an  edict  went  forth  from  the  south 
To  the  north  of  the  empire  afar, 
And  a  herald  with  clamorous  mouth 
Proclaimed  it  in  hamlet  and  town, 
Till  the  folk  as  by  rumors  of  war 
Were  stirred,  or  by  famine  and  drouth, 
For  from  niche  and  from  altar  and  shrine 
The  Christ  and  the  Virgin  divine 
Must  be  cast  desecratingly  down. 

So  rage  slumbered  hot  in  the  heart 

In  Constan tine's  city,  the  old; 

And  murmurs  waxed  loud  in  the  mart 

And  the  tongues  of  the  people  grew  bold. 

But  the  monarch  was  firm;   and  the  more, 

When  he  heard  of  the  stir  in  the  state, 

Was  his  spirit  alert  and  elate, 

And  naught  in  his  rashness  sufficed 

But  to  cry  to  the  guard  at  the  door, 

"Thou  knowest  the  image  of  Christ 

Surmounting  the  palace's  gate, 

Go  thou,  take  thy  weapon  and  smite, 

In  the  emperor's  name  and  the  right!" 

The  guardsman  was  pallid  with  fear, 

For  he  knew  how  the  Christ  was  adored, 
157 


But  he  only  could  bow  and  obey, 

Passing  forth  on  his  perilous  way 

With  his  hand  gripping  tight  on  his  sword. 

By  the  gate  was  a  woman  in  prayer, 

Who,  when  she  beheld  his  intent, 

Cried  loud  to  the  heralding  air, 

Till  there  gathered  around  her  a  score. 

There  were  crones  in  decrepitude  bent, 

And  mothers,  and  maids  who  were  fair, 

To  beg  and  beseech  and  implore. 

But  he  gave  little  heed  to  their  cries 

For  he  dreaded  the  emperor's  ire; 

He  saw  not  the  light  in  their  eyes, 

The  baleful  and  dangerous  fire. 

The  ladder  was  scaled,  and  his  hand 

Uplifted  the  merciless  brand; 

A  glimmer  of  steel  and  a  blow, 

And  the  image  fell  clanging  below 

In  the  midst  of  the  sorrowful  band. 

In  a  moment  their  grief  was  forgot, 
And  a  frenzy  possessed  them  instead. 
Afar  from  the  doom-fated  spot 
Would  the  terrified  guardsman  have  fled; 
But  they  seized  him  in  madness,  and  tore 
His  limbs  in  their  maniac  might, 
And  dabbled  their  hands  in  his  gore, 
And  shouted  in  eager  delight 
That  Christ  was  avenged  evermore. 

A  tale  of  the  shadowy  past 
Obscured  by  the  mists  of  the  years, 

158 


Where,  down  all  the  distance,  one  hears 
Fanatical  echoes  of  strife. 
Oh,  why,  from  the  first  to  the  last, 
Should  His  name,  that  the  spirit  reveres, 
Be  blent  with  the  clashing  of  spears 
Where  frenzy  and  slaughter  are  rife! 

Love,  love  was  the  creed  that  He  taught, 
And  peace,  perfect  peace,  everywhere; 
The  past  that  is  dead  is  as  naught, 
The  present  and  future  are  fair. 
Could  we  but  see  over  the  tomb 
The  flowers  of  Christ's  tenderness  bloom, 
Grand,  grand  were  the  ages  to  come, 
For  the  voices  of  strife  would  be  dumb! 

The  Bronze  Christ 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


Unto  them  that  are  called,  both  Jews  and  Greeks, 
Christ,  the  power  of  God,  and  the  wisdom  of  God. 

So  long,  so  long  ago  I  had  been  slain 

By  blindness  malice-led,  I  scarce  could  tell 

What  soul  it  was  that  trod  in  weary  pain 
The  vestibule  of  hell. 

Only  at  times  a  sick  dream  came  to  me 

That  once  I  had  been  Baldur  and  erstwhile 
The  gods  in  heaven  had  rejoiced  to  see 

The  glory  of  my  smile. 

159 


In  the  Dim  Country's  languor  I  had  lost 
The  way  of  smiling,  and  all  genial  words 

Fell  dumb  at  the  near  breath  of  Hela's  frost 
Like  winter-smitten  birds. 

In  that  gray  land  of  failure,  we  who  died 

Inglorious  deaths,  nourished  our  shadowy  shame. 

Meeting  we  turned  our  downward  gaze  aside 
Before  the  Stranger  came. 

Across  our  hush  I  heard  his  quick  feet  ring, 
For  like  a  warrior  fresh  from  fight  he  trod. 

I  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  remembering 
That  I  had  been  a  god — 

Remembering  that  promise  of  a  throne 
Upon  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  earth, — 

A  perfect  kingdom  rising  all  mine  own 
From  worthlessness  to  worth. 


A  sudden  laughter  shook  the  still  dank  air 
Like  the  clear  causeless  laughter  of  a  child. 

Over  the  dusky  meadows,  bleak  and  bare, 
All  the  Dim  Country  smiled, 

And  one  went  singing  in  the  gloom — "Behold, 
Baldur  comes  down  to  the  dishonored  dead. 

What,  shall  we  find  the  ways  too  murk  and  cold 
That  the  Bright  God  can  tread? 

160 


"Here  in  this  land  of  dreams  that  are  no  more 
And  spent  desires,  he  laughs, — and  in  his  eyes 

In  forms  more  glorious  than  once  they  bore 
We  see  our  dead  hopes  rise." 

"Ashes  of  earth  upon  hell's  midden  cast, 

From  these,"  I  cried,  "  shall  Baldur  build  his  throne- 
But,  oh,  the  wasted  ages  that  I  passed 
Unknowing  and  unknown — 

"Nay,  was  I  Baldur  till  I  met  thine  eyes? 

Thine  be  the  throne!"    But,  lo,  he  was  not  there,- 
Only  a  wakened  world,  and  a  surprise 

Of  morning  in  the  air. 

Baldur  in  Niflheim 
AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 


A  light  for  revelation 
to  the  Gentiles. 

Before  Christ  left  the  Citadel  of  Light, 
To  tread  the  dreadful  way  of  human  birth, 
His  shadow  sometimes  fell  upon  the  earth 

And  those  who  saw  it  wept  with  joy  and  fright. 

"Thou  art  Apollo,  than  the  sun  more  bright!" 

They  cried.     "Our  music  is  of  little  worth, 
But  thrill  our  blood  with  thy  creative  mirth 

Thou  god  of  song,  thou  lord  of  lyric  might!" 

161 


O  singing  pilgrim!  who  could  love  and  follow 
Your  lover  Christ,  through  even  love's  despair. 

You  knew  within  the  cypress-darkened  hollow 
The  feet  that  on  the  mountain  are  so  fair. 

For  it  was  Christ  that  was  your  own  Apollo, 
And  thorns  were  in  the  laurel  on  your  hair. 

His  Laureate 

JOYCE  KILMER 


There  can  be  neither  Jew  nor  Greek; 
for  ye  are  all  one  man  in  Christ  Jesus. 

0  Man  of  my  own  people,  I  alone 
Among  these  alien  ones  can  know  thy  face, 

1  who  have  felt  the  kinship  of  thy  race 
Burn  in  me  as  I  sit  where  they  intone 

Thy  praises, — those  who,  striving  to  make  known 
A  God  for  sacrifice,  have  missed  the  grace 
Of  thy  sweet  human  meaning  in  its  place, 
Thou  who  art  of  our  blood-bond  and  our  own. 

Are  we  not  sharers  of  thy  Passion?    Yea, 

In  spirit-anguish  closely  by  thy  side 

We  have  drained  the  bitter  cup,  and,  tortured,  felt 

With  thee  the  bruising  of  the  heavy  welt. 

In  every  land  is  our  Gethsemane. 

A  thousand  times  have  we  been  crucified. 

The  Jew  to  Jesus 

FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK 

162 


That  they  may  know  the  mystery 
of  God,  even  Christ. 

Dear  intimate  of  little  folk,  if  now 

You  seem  too  incommensurably  great, 

Is  it  because  'tis  easier  to  abate 

Our  faith  than  equal  it  with  yours? — to  allow 

You  the  divine  advantage,  than  avow 

That  other  human  hearts  are  designate 

To  share  your  mastery  and  free  estate? 

To  you  as  God,  we,  unbelieving  bow — 

To  you  that,  verily  divine,  have  trod 

The  way  to  godhood;    who,  being  simple,  wed 

Your  love  to  Life's  Almighty  Will,  and  lo, 

Upon  the  instant,  like  a  river-head 

Upspringing  in  your  flesh,  began  to  flow 

Anew  the  world-creating  power  of  God. 

To  Jesus 

HENRY  BRYAN  BINNS 


VII 
THE    WORLD'S   JESUS 


Go  ye  into  all  the  world,  and  preach 
the  gospel  to  the  whole  creation. 

Out  from  the  doomed  Jerusalem,  in  days  of  long  ago, 
By  two  and  two  they  sallied  forth  to  lands  of  sun  or 

snow; 
And  each  slow  century  since  then  has  seen  this  loyal 

clan 
Break  out  to  bear  the  blessed  news  to  all  the  sons  of 

man. 

Beside  the  slim,  tall  temples,  where  the  tawny  rivers  run, 

They  set  their  tents  where  shining  stars  looked  down 
on  Babylon. 

Through  Memphis'  linteled  gates  they  passed,  and  sang 
a  holy  psalm, 

Where  carven  gods  looked  down  on  them  in  imme 
morial  calm. 

Their  bare  feet  pressed  the  beaten  shore,  beneath  dark 

Nubia's  cliffs; 
They  ate  the  corn  from  out  their  scrips,  where  Kar- 

nak's  hieroglyphs 
Tell  how  the  world's  gray  mother,  dead,  beside  old 

Nilus  lies, 

And  held  the  lifted  cross  before  Assyria's  glazing  eyes. 

167 


Down  to  imperial  Rome  they  drew,  o'er  the  Cam- 

pagna's  turf, 
Nor  halted   where   the   rocky   shore   flung   back   the 

roaring  surf, 
But  spread  the  sails,  and,  unafraid,  across  the  seething 

main 
Steered  where  the  wild  Atlantic  lashed  the  pillared 

front  of  Spain. 

In  single  file,  on  lonely  paths,  they  walked  through 
forests  dim, 

And  stirred  the  Saxon  silence  with  their  solemn  matin 
hymn; 

The  bloom  of  Irish  primroses  fell  on  their  wandering 
feet, 

And  heather  on  the  Scottish  hills  made  all  their  gar 
ments  sweet. 

Beside  the  stormy   Northern  capes  they  taught  the 

Vikings  bold 
And  in  the  English  meadows  green  the  wondrous  tale 

they  told; 
Amid  the  cairns,  among  the  oaks,  they  reared  the  holy 

crypt, 
And  dared  to  tell  of  dying  Love,  where  Druid  altars 

dripped. 

And  still  o'er  all  the  earth  they  fare,  where'er  a  soul 

has  need; 
My  heart  leaps  up  and  calls  to  them:    O  Brothers 

mine!     God  speed! 

168 


What  time  within  the  jungle  deep  ye  watch  the  day 
light  die, 

Or  on  some  lonely  Indian  steep  see  dawn  flush  all  the 
sky. 

Far  is  the  cry  from  here  to  there,  yet  hearken  when 

we  say: 
Ye  are  the  brethren  of  the  Book;    in  Khartoum  or 

Cathay, 
Tis  ye  who  make  the  record  good,  'tis  ye,  O  royal 

souls ! 
Who  justify  the  Chronicles,  writ  in  the  ancient  scrolls. 

O  Missionaries  of  the  Blood!     Ambassadors  of  God! 
Our  souls  flame  in  us  when  we  see  where  ye  have 

fearless  trod 
At  break  of  day;   your  dauntless  faith  our  slackened 

valor  shames, 
And  every  eve  our  joyful  prayers  are  jeweled  with  your 

names. 

The  Missionaries 

ROBERT  MC!NTYRE 


That  the  love  wherewith  thou  lovest  me 
may  be  in  them  and  I  in  them! 

What  means  this  waiting  throng? 
Whence  have  these  weary  wayworn  wanderers  come? 
Why  rises,  in  strange  tongues,  the  expectant  hum, 
Like  that  tense  under-song 


The  joyful  Jordan  voicej  in  the  spring 
Till  Hermon  hearkens,  leaning  grandly  down, 
And  wearing  still  his  glimmering  snowy  crown? 
Soon  will  these  murmuring  lips  with  ardor  sing, 
And  soon  these  lifted  faces,  wan  or  brown, 
Glow  into  worship  that  is  rapturing. 
Back  will  be  thrown  the  consecrated  door, 
And  then  these  feet,  from  many  a  distant  shore, 
Be  privileged  to  press  the  hallowed  floor. 

Why  they  have  come, — the  hardy  mountaineer 

From  Lebanon's  cedars  and  their  checkered  shade? 

The  merchant  and  the  snowy-mantled  maid 

Who  hold  great  Nilus  dear? 

Why  have  they  come, — the  men  with  restless  eyes 

And  pallid  cheeks  that  tell  of  norland  skies? 

Why  have  they  come, — the  Latin  and  the  Greek? 

Do  pilgrims  thus  this  sanctuary  seek 

Because  'tis  here 

For  year  on  forty  year 

The  red  earth  drank 

The  deluged  blood  of  Paynim  and  of  Frank? 

Or  do  they  surge  to  see 

The  antique  symmetry 

Of  springing  arch  and  carven  pillar  fine, 

In  this  old  holy  house  of  Constantine? 

Ah,  no!  ah,  no!    To  them  the  memory 
Of  war  is  not,  and  monarchs  play  no  part 
In  any  thought  that  stirs  an  eager  heart. 
They  have  no  eyes  to  see 

170 


A  single  graceful  groining.     What  care  they 

If  here,  upon  a  bygone  Christmas-day 

The  King-Crusader,  Baldwin,  took  his  crown! 

Or  what  to  them  the  saint  of  blest  renown 

In  yonder  sepulcher,  now  crumbling  clay! 

Their  patient  feet  one  precious  spot  would  press, 

Their  yearning  eyes  would  lovingly  caress 

The  time-dulled  silver  star 

Sunk  deep  within  the  pavement,  footf all- worn : 

"Here,  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  Christ  was  born" 

They  read,  these  pilgrims  who  have  plodded  far. 

They  read  and  pass  and  ponder.     Few  can  see 

The  tiny  chapel  and  the  dim-lit  shrine, 

And  feel  no  thrill,  despite  the  mummery, 

Of  something  more  divine 

Within  the  breast  than  ever  pulsed  before. 

Then  let  us  pilgrims  be 

Upon  this  sacred  day  we  all  adore! 

Although  our  mortal  feet  touch  not  the  floor, 

Although  our  mortal  eyes  may  not  behold, 

Our  spirits  may  take  flight, 

And  with  immortal  sight 

Stand  where  the  prayerful  wise-men  stood  of  old 

In  ecstasy  of  adoration,  when 

They  saw  the  Saviour  of  the  sons  of  men. 

The  Christmas  Pilgrimage  (Bethlehem) 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


171 


We  have  the  mind  of  Christ. 

I  cannot  put  the  Presence  by,  of  Him,  the  Crucified, 
Who  moves  men's  spirits  with  His  love  as  doth  the 

moon  the  tide; 
Again  I  see  the  Life  He  lived,  the  godlike  Death  He 

died. 

Again   I   see   upon   the  cross   that  great  Soul-battle 

fought, 

Into  the  texture  of  the  world  the  tale  of  which  is  wrought 
Until  it  hath  become  the  woof  of  human  deed  and 

thought, — 

And,  joining  with  the  cadenced  bells  that  all  the  morn 
ing  fill, 

His  cry  of  agony  doth  yet  my  inmost  being  thrill, 
Like  some  fresh  grief  from  yesterday  that  tears  the 
heart-strings  still. 

I  cannot  put  His  presence  by,  I  meet  Him  everywhere; 

I  meet  Him  in  the  country  town,  the  busy  market- 
square  ; 

The  Mansion  and  the  Tenement  attest  His  presence 
there. 

Upon  the  funneled  ships  at  sea  He  sets  His  shining  feet; 
The  Distant  Ends  of  Empire  not  in  vain  His  Name 

repeat, — 
And,  like  the  presence  of  a  rose,  He  makes  the  whole 

world  sweet. 

172 


He  comes  to  break  the  barriers  down  raised  up  by 
barren  creeds; 

About  the  globe  from  zone  to  zone,  like  sunlight  He 
proceeds ; 

He  comes  to  give  the  World's  starved  heart  the  per 
fect  love  it  needs, — 

The  Christ,   Whose  friends  have  played  Him  false, 

Whom  Dogmas  have  belied, 
Still  speaking  to  the  hearts  of  men — tho'  shamed  and 

crucified, 
The  Master  of  the  centuries  Who  will  not  be  denied! 

The  Voice  of  Christmas 

HARRY  KEMP 


And  the  Word  became  flesh,  and 
dwelt  among  us. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  so  runs  the  marvellous  tale, 
Heaven  once  flashed  through  her  amethystine  veil, 
And  while  this  raptured  earth  beheld  and  heard 
Those  star-eclipsing  choirs,  the  Eternal  Word 
Put  on  our  flesh  to  bear  our  human  bale. 

Faint  with  the  sweets  such  sanctities  exhale, 
Deep-brooding  Doubt  lets  fall  his  winnowing  flail, 
And  feels  his  weary  heart  divinely  stirred 

On  Christmas  Eve. 
173 


For  sudden  lustres  play  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  silence  thrills  with  music,  mothers  pale 
Smile  like  Madonnas,  and  the  Christ,  unblurred 
By  mists  of  time,  unslain,  unsepulchred, 
Life's  cup  reconsecrates  to  Holy  Grail 
On  Christmas  Eve. 

On  Christmas  Eve 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


/  press  toward  the  goal  unto  the  prize 

of  the  high  calling  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus. 

If  I  had  been  in  Palestine 

A  poor  disciple  I  had  been. 

I  had  not  risked  or  purse  or  limb 

All  to  forsake,  and  follow  Him. 

But  with  the  vast  and  wondering  throng 
I  too  had  stood  and  listened  long; 
I  too  had  felt  my  spirit  stirred 
When  the  Beatitudes  I  heard. 

With  the  glad  crowd  that  sang  the  psalm, 
I  too  had  sung,  and  strewed  the  palm; 
Then  slunk  away  in  dastard  shame 
When  the  High  Priest  denounced  His  name. 
But  when  my  late  companions  cried 
"Away!  let  Him  be  crucified!" 
I  would  have  begged,  with  tremulous 

Pale  lips,  "Release  Him  unto  us!" 
174 


Beside  the  cross  when  Mary  prayed, 

A  great  way  off  I  too  had  stayed; 

Not  even  in  that  hour  had  dared, 

And  for  my  dying  Lord  declared; 

But  beat  upon  my  craven  breast, 
And  loathed  my  coward  heart,  at  least, 
To  think  my  life  I  dared  not  stake 
And  beard  the  Romans  for  His  sake. 

Judge  me,  0  Lord! 

SARAH  N.  CLEGHORN 


Who  shall  separate  us  from 
the  love  of  Christ  ? 

I 

O  man  of  light  and  lore! 

Do  you  mean  that  in  our  day 

The  Christ  hath  passed  away; 

That  nothing  now  is  divine 

In  the  fierce  rays  that  shine 

Through  every  cranny  of  thought; 

That  Christ  as  He  once  was  taught 

Shall  be  the  Christ  no  more? 

That  the  Hope  and  Saviour  of  men 

Shall  be  seen  no  more  again; 

That,  miracles  being  done, 

Gone  is  the  Holy  One? 

And  thus,  you  hold,  this  Christ 

For  the  past  alone  sufficed; 

175 


From  the  throne  of  the  hearts  of  the  world 

The  Son  of  God  shall  be  hurled, 

And  henceforth  must  be  sought 

New  prophets  and  kings  of  thought; 

That  the  tenderest,  truest  word 

The  heart  of  sorrow  hath  heard 

Shall  sound  no  more  upon  earth; 

That  he  who  hath  made  of  birth 

A  dread  and  sacred  rite; 

Who  hath  brought  to  the  eyes  of  death 

A  vision  of  heavenly  light, 

Shall  fade  with  our  failing  faith; — 

He  who  saw  in  children's  eyes 

Eternal  paradise; 

Who  made  the  poor  man's  lowly 

Labor  a  service  holy, 

And  sweat  of  work  more  sweet 

Than  incense  at  God's  feet; 

Who  turned  the  God  of  Fear 

To  a  Father,  bending  near; 

Who  looked  through  shame  and  sin 

At  the  sanctity  within; 

Whose  memory,  since  he  died, 

The  earth  hath  sanctified — 

Hath  been  the  stay  and  the  hold 

Of  millions  of  lives  untold, 

And  the  world  on  its  upward  path 

Hath  led  from  crime  and  wrath; — 

You  say  that  this  Christ  hath  passed 

And  we  cannot  hold  him  fast? 

176 


II 

Ah,  no!    If  the  Christ  you  mean 

Shall  pass  from  this  time,  this  scene, 

These  hearts,  these  lives  of  ours, 

'Tis  but  as  the  summer  flowers 

Pass  but  return  again, 

To  gladden  the  world  of  men. 

For  he, — the  only,  the  true, — 

In  each  age,  in  each  waiting  heart, 

Leaps  into  life  anew. 

Tho*  he  pass,  he  shall  not  depart. 

Behold  him  now  where  he  comes! 

Not  the  Christ  of  our  subtle  creeds, 

But  the  lord  of  our  hearts,  of  our  homes, 

Of  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  needs; 

The  brother  of  want  and  blame, 

The  lover  of  women  and  men, 

With  a  love  that  puts  to  shame 

All  passions  of  mortal  ken; — 

Yet  of  all  of  women  born 

His  is  the  scorn  of  scorn; 

Before  whose  face  do  fly 

Lies  and  the  love  of  a  lie; 

Who  from  the  temple  of  God 

And  the  sacred  place  of  laws 

Drives  forth,  with  smiting  rod, 

The  herds  of  ravening  maws. 

'Tis  he,  as  none  other  can, 
Makes  free  the  spirit  of  man, 

177 


And  speaks,  in  darkest  night, 

One  word  of  awful  light 

That  strikes  through  the  dreadful  pain 

Of  life,  a  reason  sane — 

That  word  divine  which  brought 

The  universe  from  naught. 

Ah,  no,  thou  life  of  the  heart, 
Never  shalt  thou  depart! 
Not  till  the  leaven  of  God 
Shall  lighten  each  human  clod; 
Not  till  the  world  shall  climb 
To  thy  height  serene,  sublime, 
Shall  the  Christ  who  enters  our  door 
Pass  to  return  no  more. 

The  Passing  of  Christ 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


Every  good  gift  and  every  perfect 
gift  is  from  above,  coming 
down  from  the  Father  of  lights. 

Lord,  I  am  just  a  little  boy 

Born  one  day  like  You, 
And  I've  got  a  mother  dear 

And  a  birthday  too. 
But  my  birthday  comes  in  spring, 

When  the  days  are  long, 
And  the  robin  in  the  tree 

Wakens  me  with  song. 

178 


Since  the  birds  are  all  away, 

Lord,  when  You  are  born, 
Let  Your  angels  waken  me 

On  Your  birthday  morn. 

Lord,  I'm  just  a  little  boy, 

Hidden  in  the  night: 
Let  Your  angels  spy  me  out 

Long  before  it's  light. 
I  would  be  the  first  to  wake 

And  the  first  to  raise 
In  this  quiet  home  of  ours 

Songs  of  love  and  praise. 
You  shall  hear  me  first,  dear  Lord, 

Blow  my  Christmas  horn; 
Let  Your  angels  waken  me 

On  Your  birthday  morn. 

A  Child's  Christmas  Song 

T.  A.  DALY 


This  is  the  victory  that  overcometh 
the  world,  even  our  faith. 

All  these  on  whom  the  sacred  seal  was  set, 
They  could  forsake  thee  while  thine  eyes  were  wet. 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee, 
Yet  having  seen  I  cannot  once  forget. 

179 


I  have  looked  long  into  those  friendly  eyes, 
And  found  thee  dreaming,  fragile,  and  unwise. 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee, 
Yet  have  I  loved  thee  for  thy  gracious  lies. 

One  broke  thee  with  a  kiss  at  eventide, 

And  he  that  loved  thee  well  has  thrice  denied. 

Brother,  I  have  no  faith  in  thee  at  all, 

Yet  must  I  seek  thy  hands,  thy  feet,  thy  side. 

Behold  that  John  that  leaned  upon  thy  breast; 
His  eyes  grew  heavy  and  he  needs  must  rest. 
I  watched  unseen  through  dark  Gethsemane 
And  might  not  slumber,  for  I  loved  thee  best. 

Peace  thou  wilt  give  to  them  of  troubled  mind, 

Bread  to  the  hungry,  spittle  to  the  blind. 

My  heart  is  broken  for  my  unbelief, 

But  that  thou  canst  not  heal  though  thou  art  kind. 

They  asked  one  day  to  sit  beside  thy  throne. 
I  made  one  prayer,  in  silence  and  alone. 
Brother,  thou  knowest  my  unbelief  in  thee. 
Bear  not  my  sins,  for  thou  must  bear  thine  own. 

Even  he  that  grieves  thee  most  "Lord,  Lord,"  he  saith, 
So  will  I  call  on  thee  with  my  last  breath! 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee, 

Yet  I  am  wounded  for  thee  unto  death. 

An  Unbeliever 

ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 

180 


He  came  and  preached  peace 
to  you  that  were  far  off. 

It  is  said  the  Bedouins  cry,  on  the  Syrian  hills,  a  clear 
Loud  summons  to  War,  and  the  tribes  far  distant 

hearken  and  hear, 

So  wondrous  rare  is  the  air,  so  crystal  the  atmosphere. 
Their  call  is  to  arms;   but  One,  in  the  centuries  long 

ago, 
Spake  there  for  Peace,  in  tones  that  were  marvellous 

sweet  and  low, 
And  the  ages  they  hear  Him  yet,  and  His  voice  do 

the  nations  know. 

On  Syrian  Hills 

RICHARD  BURTON 


Beloved,  let  us  love  one  anothert 
for  love  is  of  God. 

My  father  prayed  as  he  drew  a  bead  on  the  graycoats, 
Back   in   those   blazing  years   when   the   house   was 

divided. 
Bless    his   old    heart!      There    never    was    truer    or 

kinder; 
Yet  he  prayed,  while  hoping  the  ball  from  his  clumsy 

old  musket 
Might  thud  to  the  body  of  some  hot-eyed  young 

Southerner 
And  tumble  him  limp  in  the  mud  of  the  Vicksburg 

trenches. 

181 


That    was    my    father,   serving    the    Lord    and    his 

country, 

Praying  and  shooting  whole-heartedly, 
Never  a  doubt. 
And  now  what  about 
Me  in  my  own  day  of  battle? 
Could  I  put  my  prayers  behind  a  slim  Springfield 

bullet? 

Hardly,  except  to  mutter:    "Jesus,  we  part  here. 
My  country  calls  for  my  body,  and  takes  my  soul 

also. 
Do  you  see  those  humans  herded  and  driven  against 

me? 

Turn  away,  Jesus,  for  I've  got  to  kill  them. 
Why?  Oh,  well,  it's  the  way  of  my  fathers, 
And  such  evils  bring  some  vast,  vague  good  to  my 

country. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  to-day  my  business  is  killing, 
And  my  gods  must  be  luck  and  the  devil  till  this 

thing  is  over. 
Leave  me  now,  Lord.    Your  eye  makes  me  slack  in 

my  duty." 

My  father  could  mix  his  prayers  and  his  shooting, 
And  he  was  a  rare  true  man  in  his  generation. 
Now,  I'm  fairly  decent  in  mine,  I  reckon; 
Yet  if  I  should  pray  like  him,  I'd  spoil  it  by  laughing. 
What  is  the  matter? 

My  Father  and  I 
CHARLES  BADGER  CLARK,  JR. 

182 


Christ  also  suffered,  the  righteous 
for  the  unrighteous. 

They  have  dressed  me  up  in  a  soldier's  dress, 

With  a  rifle  in  my  hand, 
And  have  sent  me  bravely  forth  to  shoot 

My  own  in  a  foreign  land. 

Oh,  many  shall  die  for  the  fields  of  their  homes, 

And  many  in  conquest  wild, 
But  I  shall  die  for  the  fatherland 

That  murdered  my  little  child. 

How  many  hundreds  of  years  ago — 

The  nations  wax  and  cease! — 
Did  the  God  of  our  fathers  doom  us  to  bear 

The  flaming  message  of  peace! 

We  are  the  mock  and  the  sport  of  time! 

Yet  why  should  I  complain! — 
For  the  Jew  that  they  hung  on  the  bloody  cross, 

He  also  died  in  vain. 

The  Jewish  Conscript  (in  Russia) 

FLORENCE  KIPEB  FRANK 


Far  be  it  from  me  to  glory,  save 

in  the  cross  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

At  the  high  ridge 

Of  a  wide  war-stricken  realm 

There  stands  an  ancient  wooden  Christ. 

183 


Hollow  the  tottering  image  towers, 

Eyeless,  and  rotten,  and  decrepit  there, 

His  smile  a  cruel  twist. 

Within  the  empty  heart  of  this  old  Christ 

Small  stinging  insects  build  their  nests; 

And  iron-hearted  soldiers  cross  themselves 

The  while  they  pass 

The  hollow-hearted  figure  by. 

I  think  there  is  no  Christ  left  there 
In  all  those  carnage-loving  lands 
Save  only  this  of  hollow  wood 
With  wasp  nests 
Hiving  in  its  neart. 

The  Wooden  Christ 

MARTHA  FOOTE  CROW 


/  will  pray  the  Father,  and  he  shall 
give  you  another  Comforter,  that  he 
may  be  with  you  forever. 

Under  our  curtain  of  fire, 

Over  the  clotted  clouds, 

We  charged,  to  be  withered,  to  reel 

And  despairingly  wheel 

When  the  bugles  bade  us  retire. 

From  the  terrible  odds. 

As  we  ebbed  with  the  battle-tide, 
Fingers  of  red-hot  steel 
Suddenly  closed  on  my  side. 
184 


I  fell,  and  began  to  pray. 
I  crawled  on  my  hands  and  lay 
Where  a  shallow  crater  yawned  wide; 
Then, — I  swooned  .  .  . 

When  I  woke  it  was  yet  day. 
Fierce  was  the  pain  of  my  wound; 
But  I  saw  it  was  death  to  stir, 
For  fifty  paces  away 
Their  trenches  were. 
In  torture  I  prayed  for  the  dark 
And  the  stealthy  step  of  my  friend 
Who,  staunch  to  the  very  end, 
Would  creep  to  the  danger-zone 
And  offer  his  life  as  a  mark 
To  save  my  own. 

Night  fell.     I  heard  his  tread, — 
Not  stealthy,  but  firm  and  serene, 
As  if  my  comrade's  head 
Were  lifted  from  that  scene 
Of  passion  and  pain  and  dread; 
As  if  my  comrade's  heart 
In  carnage  took  no  part; 
As  if  my  comrade's  feet 
Were  set  on  some  radiant  street 
Such  as  no  darkness  could  haunt; 
As  if  my  comrade's  eyes 
No  deluge  of  flame  could  surprise, 
No  death  and  destruction  daunt, 
185 


No  red-beaked  bird  dismay, 

Nor  sight  of  decay. 

Then  in  the  bursting  shells'  dim  light, 

I  saw  he  was  clad  in  white. 

For  a  moment  I  thought  that  I  saw  the  smock 

Of  a  shepherd  in  search  of  his  flock. 

Alert  were  the  enemy,  too, 

And  their  bullets  flew 

Straight  at  a  mark  no  bullet  could  fail: 

For  the  seeker  was  tall  and  his  robe  was  bright; 

But  he  did  not  flee  nor  quail. 

Instead,  with  unhurrying  stride, 

He  came, 

And,  gathering  my  tall  frame, 

Like  a  child  in  his  arms  .  .  . 

Again  I  swooned; 

And  awoke 

From  a  blissful  dream 

In  a  cave  by  a  stream. 

My  silent  comrade  had  bound  my  side. 

No  pain  now  was  mine,  but  a  wish  that  I  spoke, — 

A  mastering  wish  to  serve  this  man 

Who  had  ventured  through  hell  my  doom  to  revoke, 

As  only  the  truest  of  comrades  can. 

I  begged  him  to  tell  me  how  best  I  might  aid  him, 

And  urgently  prayed  him 

Never  to  leave  me,  whatever  betide; 

When  I  saw  he  was  hurt — 

Shot  through  the  hands  that  were  clasped  in  prayer! 

Then,  as  the  dark  drops  gathered  there 

186 


And  fell  in  the  dirt, 

The  wounds  of  my  friend 

Seemed  to  me  such  as  no  man  might  bear. 

Those  bullet-holes  in  the  patient  hands 

Seemed  to  transcend 

All  horrors  that  ever  these  war-drenched  lands 

Had  known  or  would  know  till  the  mad  world's  end. 

Then  suddenly  I  was  aware 

That  his  feet  had  been  wounded,  too, 

And,  dimming  the  white  of  his  side 

A  dull  stain  grew. 

"You  are  hurt,  White  Comrade!"  I  cried. 

His  words  I  already  foreknew: 

"These  are  old  wounds,'*  said  he, 

"But  of  late  they  have  troubled  me." 

The  White  Comrade 
ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 


Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled, 
neither  let  it  be  afraid. 

Perhaps  they  had  no  time  to  think  of  Him, 
Those  comfortable  men,  when  business  urged; 
And  where  the  dusty  whirl  of  pleasure  surged 
The  memory  of  His  face  no  doubt  grew  dim — 
But  when  they  turned  from  safety  and  content, 
Unflinchingly  laid  by 
The  tools  of  their  prosperity,  and  went 
To  suffer  and  to  die 

187 


For  just  a  thought,  a  disembodied  dream 

That    some    call    Nothing  — when    they    knew    the 

wrench 

Of  raveled  nerves,  the  squalor  of  the  trench, 
The  dying  look's  reproach,  the  scarlet  steam 
Of  battle  hand  to  hand— amid  that  hell 
Of  agony  they  looked  into  the  eyes 
They  had  not  seen,  in  days  when  all  was  well. 
Out  of  the  marsh  of  death  they  saw  Him  rise 
In  the  white  robes  that  gladdened  Galilee, 
Walking  the  hot  red  waves  of  blood  and  flame 
As  long  ago  He  came 
To  those  that  laboured  on  a  troubled  sea. 
And  they,  who  had  forgotten  Him  so  long, 
Remembered  that  those  wounded  hands  were  strong 
And  infinitely  kind  .  . 
O  Lord  of  Love!    shall  we  not  understand, 
Who  in  our  comfort  are  as  grossly  blind? 
We  prosper  to  the  height  of  our  desire — 
How  should  our  rich  and  busy  hands  require 
Aught  of  the  Wounded  Hand? 
Till  comes  a  day  when  we  are  under  fire, 
Spent,  bleeding,  stripped  of  our  complacent  pride, 
And  beaten  to  the  last  extremity, 
Then,  a  living  presence  at  our  side, 
White  Comrade,  we  find— Thee! 

The  White  Comrade 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

188 


We  are  compassed  about  with  so  great 
a  cloud  of  witnesses! 

Ours  is  a  dark  Easter-tide  and  a  scarlet  Spring, 
But  high  up  at  Heaven's  gate  all  the  saints  sing, 
Glad  for  the  great  companies  returning  to  their  King! 

Oh,  in  youth  the  dawn's  a  rose,  dusk  an  amethyst, 
All  the  roads  from  dusk  to  dawn,  gay  they  wind  and 

twist — 
The  old  road  to  Paradise,  easy  it  is  missed! 

But  out  on  the  wet  battle-fields,  few  the  roadways 

wind, 

One  to  grief,  one  to  death,  no  road  that's  kind — 
The  old  road  to  Paradise,  plain  it  is  to  find! 

(Martin  in  his  colonel's  cloak,  Joan  in  her  mail, 
David  in  his  robe  and  crown — few  there  be  that  fail — 
Down  the  road  to  Paradise  they  stand  to  greet  and 
hail!) 

Where  the  dark's  a  terror-thing,  morn  a  hope  doubt- 
tossed, 

Where  the  lads  lie  thinking  long  out  in  rain  and  frost, 
There  they  find  their  God  again,  long  ago  they  lost! 

Where  the  night  comes  cruelly,  where  the  hurt  men 

moan, 
Where  the  crushed  forgotten  ones  whisper  prayers 

alone, 
Christ  along  the  battle-fields  comes  to  lead  His  own: 

189 


Souls  that  would  have  withered  soon  in  the  hot  world's 

glare, 
Blown  and  gone  like  shrivelled  things,  dusty  on  the 

air, 
Rank  on  rank  they  follow  Him,  young  and  strong  and 

fair! 

Ours  is  a  sad  Easter-tide,  and  a  woeful  day, 

But   high   up   at    Heaven's    gate   the   saints   are   all 

gay, 
For  the  old  road  to  Paradise,  that's  a  crowded  way! 

The  Old  Road  to  Paradise 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 


The  Dayspring  from  on  high  shall  guide 
our  feet  in  the  way  of  peace. 

Far,  far  the  mountain  peak  from  me 
Where  lone  he  stands,  with  look  caressing; 
Yet  from  the  valley,  wistfully 
I  lift  my  dreaming  eyes,  and  see 
His  hand  stretched  forth  in  blessing. 

Never  bird  sings  nor  blossom  blows 
Upon  that  summit  chill  and  breathless 
Where  throned  he  waits  amid  the  snows; 
But  from  his  presence  wide  outflows 

Love  that  is  warm  and  deathless! 
190 


O  Symbol  of  the  great  release 
From  war  and  strife! — unfailing  fountain 
To  which  we  turn  for  joy's  increase, 
Fain  would  we  climb  to  heights  of  Peace — 
Thy  peace  upon  the  mountain! 

The  Christ  of  the  Andes 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 


Thy  kingdom  come! 

Across  the  bitter  centuries  I  hear  the  wail  of  men: 
"Oh,  would  that  Jesus  Lord,  the  Christ,  would  come 

to  us  again." 

We  decorate  our  altars  with  a  ceremonious  pride, 
With  all  the  outward  shows  of  pomp  His  worship  is 

supplied : 
Great  churches  raise  their  mighty  spires  to  pierce  the 

sunlit  skies 

While  in  the  shadow  of  the  cross  we  mutter  blas 
phemies. 

We  know  we  do  not  do  His  will  who  lessoned  us  to  pray, 
"  Our  Father  grant  within  our  lives  Thy  Kingdom  rule 

to-day." 
The  prayer  He  taught  us  once  a  week  we  mouth  with 

half -shut  eye 

While  in  the  charnel-house  of  words  immortal  mean 
ings  die. 

Above  our  brothers'  frailties  we  cry  "Unclean !  Unclean !" 
And  with  the  hands  that  served  her  shame  still  stone 
the  Magdalene. 

191 


We  know  within  our  factories  that  wan-cheeked  women 
reel 

Among  the  deft  and  droning  belts  that  spin  from 
wheel  to  wheel. 

We  know  that  unsexed  childhood  droops  in  dull-eyed 
drudgery — 

The  little  children  that  He  blessed  in  far  off  Galilee,— 

Yet  surely,  Lord,  our  hearts  would  grow  more  merci 
ful  to  them, 

If  Thou  couldst  come  again  to  us  as  once  in  Bethlehem. 

A  Page  from  America's  Psalter 

WILLARD  WATTLES 


Suffer  the  little  children,  and  forbid 
them  not,  to  come  unto  me. 

"Christ  the  Lord  is  risen!" 
Chant  the  Easter  children, 
Their  love-moulded  faces 
Luminous  with  gladness, 
And  their  costly  raiment 
Gleaming  like  the  lilies. 

But  last  night  I  wandered 
Where  Christ  had  not  risen, 
Where  love  knows  no  gladness, 
Where  the  Lord  of  Hunger 
Leaves  no  room  for  lilies 

And  no  time  for  childhood. 
192 


And  to-day  I  wonder 
Whether  I  am  dreaming; 
For  above  the  swelling 
Of  their  Easter  music 
I  can  hear  the  murmur 
"Suffer  all  the  children." 

Nay,  the  world  is  dreaming! 
And  my  seeing  spirit 
Trembles  for  its  waking, 
When  their  Saviour  rises 
To  restore  the  lilies 
To  the  outcast  children. 


The  Easter  Children 

ELSA  BARKER 


I  came  that  they  may  have  life, 
and  may  have  it  more  abundantly. 


When  the  Lord  of  the  great  and  the  little, 

The  potter  whose  hand  shapes  our  clay, 
Sets  a  child  in  the  midst  of  the  market 

Where  the  world-peoples  chaffer  all  day, 
Sets  a  child  with  its  innocent  questions, 

Its  flower-face  dimpled  and  fine, 
In  the  very  heart's  core  of  the  clamor, 

A  thought  of  the  Maker  divine; — 

And  men,  in  their  lust  for  dominion, 
Their  madness  for  silver  and  gold, 
Crush  the  beauty  and  charm  of  that  spirit, 

Make  the  flower-face  withered  and  old, 
196 


Bind  the  hands  and  feet  with  a  tether 
That  childhood  can  never  untie, 

Deem  not  that  Jehovah  unheeding 

Looks  down  from  the  heights  of  the  sky. 


He  sees,  though  we  think  Him  unseeing, 

He  knows  when  the  factory  wheels 
Grind  down  the  life-blood  of  children; 

When  the  poor  little  bond-servant  kneels 
In  the  pang  of  its  frightful  abasement; — 

Though  all  are  deaf  to  its  prayer, 
There  is  coming  a  dark  day  of  judgment, 

And  the  Lord  of  the  child  will  be  there. 


The  child  in  the  midst,  as  we've  marred  it, 

Bent-shouldered,  dull-eyed,  and  a  slave, 
That  cringes  at  word  and  at  fetter, 

That  cries  for  the  rest  of  the  grave; 
With  our  free  flag  unfolding  above  it, 

So  free,  from  the  pine  to  the  palm! 
And  our  scared  pallid  children  beneath  it! 

There's  a  jar  in  the  lilt  of  our  psalm. 


From  the  mine  where  the  midnight  engulfs  it, 

From  the  mill  where  the  clogged  air  is  thick 
With  the  dust  of  the  weaving  that  chokes  it; 

From  the  home  where  it's  fevered  and  sick 
194 


With  man's  toil,  when  God  meant  it  for  gladness, 

The  child  in  the  midst  of  our  clay 
God-moulded,  man-marred,  calls  to  heaven 

For  the  vengeance  we're  daring  this  day. 

The  Child  in  the  Midst 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 


Whoso  shall  receive  one  such  little  child 
in  my  name,  receiveth  me. 

O  Mary,  lend  thy  Babe  to  me 
To  hold  upon  my  breast! 
It  cannot  be,  it  cannot  be — 
Thy  heart  would  shake  his  rest. 
Beneath  thy  robe  I  see  it  leap — 
How  in  such  tumult  could  he  sleep? 

God's  Mother,  shame  upon  thee  now, 
So  hard  and  cold  to  be! 
And  who  art  thou — and  who  art  thou 
That  criest  shame  on  me? 
A  wasted  woman,  hungering  sore 
For  the  sweet  babe  I  never  bore. 

Now  for  that  waste  be  thine  the  shame — 
Thy  sentence  thou  dost  speak; 
And  for  that  hunger  thine  the  blame. 
Were  no  lost  lambs  to  seek 
Where  crowds  unseeing  pass  and  press — 
No  little  children  motherless? 

195 


O  Mary,  let  me  seek  for  such! 

Mine  eyes  with  tears  were  blind — 
Nay,  daughter,  seek  not  overmuch; 
Go  forth  and  thou  shalt  find 
Naked  and  hungry  everywhere 
The  little  ones  thou  didst  not  bear. 

Wipe  clear  of  useless  tears  thine  eyes, 
Thy  heart  of  futile  dreams. 
Go  forth  to  face  realities — 
One  deed  of  mercy  seems 
To  this  my  Son  and  Me,  more  fair 
Than  a  whole  life  of  barren  prayer. 

Love  not  in  word,  but  in  good  sooth; 
Deserted  and  defiled, 
Each  little  human  form  in  truth 
Harbours  the  Eternal  Child. 
Held  in  thine  arms,  His  eyes  of  grace 
Shall  open  to  thy  bending  face. 

God's  Mother,  I  have  been  to  blame — 
Nay,  daughter, — no  regret. 
Forget  thy  blame,  forget  thy  shame — 
Thy  very  self  forget. 
Give  wholly  thine  awakened  heart. 
My  Child  hath  need  of  all  thou  art. 

At  Bethlehem 
AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

196 


Behold  what  manner  of  love  the  Father 
hath  bestowed  upon  us,  that  we  should 
be  called  children  of  God! 

Thou  hast  on  earth  a  Trinity, — 
Thyself,  my  fellow-man,  and  me: 
When  one  with  him,  then  one  with  Thee: 
Nor,  save  together,  thine  are  we. 

To  the  Christ 

J.  B.  TABS 


Can  the  blind 
guide  the  blind? 


She  called  from  her  cell, 
"Let  me  give  you  a  rose," 
To  the  cold  tract-man 
In  his  Sabbath  clothes. 

And  the  tract-man  said 
To  the  one  gone  mad, 
"How  can  you  give 
What  you  never  had?" 

"As  you  give  Christ," 
The  madwoman  said, 
"While  love  in  your  heart 
Lies  cold  and  dead." 


Madness 

HARRY  LEE 


197 


//  any  man  cometh  unto  me,  and  hateth  not 
.  .  .  his  own  life,  he  cannot  be  my  disciple. 

A  Christmas  gift,  oh  Lord — 
Some  fiery  vision, 

Not  drowsy  promises 
Of  fields  Elysian. 

It  was  but  now  we  came 

Out  of  the  jungle; 
And  how  can  beasts  contrive 

Save  botch  and  bungle? 
Since  half  is  still  the  beast 

And  half  is  human, 
Sorrow  must  follow  hard 

On  man  and  woman. 

But  let  Thy  kindness  thrill 
Through  hateful  places: 

Our  wicked  streets  are  paved 
With  baby  faces — 

For  these,  Thy  little  ones, 
Strew  Christmas  graces; 

Let  each  one  have  a  toy, 

Forget  not  any 
And  think  upon  their  tears — • 

The  sad  too  many! 
198 


For  their  sake  come  once  more 

Down  to  Thy  manger; 
Once  more  drive  from  Thy  church 

The  money-changer. 

Again  where  all  may  see 

Die  for  us,  Master: 
Because  we  shrink  too  much 

From  death's  disaster, 
Master,  once  more  die  Thou, 

And  show  us  how. 

On  Christmas  Day 
GEORGIA  WOOD  PANGBORN 


To-day  if  ye  shall  hear 
his  voice — 

Once  by  an  arch  of  ancient  stone, 

Beneath  Italian  olive-trees 
(In  Pentecostal  youth,  too  prone 

To  visions  such  as  these), 

And  now  a  second  time,  to-day, 
Yonder,  an  hour  ago!     'Tis  strange. 

— The  hot  beach  shelving  to  the  bay, 
That  far  white  mountain  range, 

The  motley  town  where  Turk  and  Greek 

Spit  scorn  and  hatred  as  I  pass; 
Seraglio  windows,  doors  that  reek 

Sick  perfume  of  the  mass; 
199 


The  muezzin  cry  from  Allah's  tower, 
French  sailors  singing  in  the  street; 

The  Western  meets  the  Eastern  power, 
And  mingles — this  is  Crete. 


'Tis  strange!     No  wonder  and  no  dread 
Was  on  me;   hardly  even  surprise. 

I  knew  before  he  raised  his  head 
Or  fixed  me  with  his  eyes 

That  it  was  he;  far  off  I  knew 

The  leaning  figure  by  the  boat, 
The  long  straight  gown  of  faded  hue; 

The  hair  that  round  his  throat 

Fell  forward  as  he  bent  in  speech 

Above  the  naked  sailor  there, 
Calking  his  vessel  on  the  beach, 

Full  in  the  noonday  glare. 

Sharp  rang  the  sailor's  mallet-stroke 
Pounding  the  tow  into  the  seam; 

He  paused  and  mused,  and  would  have  spoke, 
Lifting  great  eyes  of  dream 

Unto  those  eyes  which  slowly  turned — 

As  once  before,  even  so  now — 
Till  full  on  mine  their  passion  burned 

With,  "Yes,  and  is  it  thou?" 
200 


Then  o'er  the  face  about  to  speak 
Again  he  leaned;   the  sunburnt  hair, 

Fallen  forward,  hid  the  tawny  cheek; 
And  I  who,  for  my  share, 

Had  but  the  instant's  gaze,  no  more, 
And  sweat  and  shuddering  of  the  mind, 

Stumbling  along  the  dazzling  shore, 
Until  a  cool  sweet  wind 

From  far-off  Ida's  silver  caves 

Said,  "Stay";   and  here  I  sit  the  while. 

And  all  my  being,  for  an  hour, 

Has  sat  in  stupor,  without  thought, 

Empty  of  memory,  love,  or  power, 
A  dumb  wild  creature  caught 

In  toils  of  purpose  not  its  own! 

But  now  at  last  the  ebbed  will  turns; 
Feeding  on  spirit,  blood,  and  bone, 

The  ghostly  protest  burns. 

"Yea,  it  is  I,  'tis  I  indeed! 

But  who  art  thou,  and  plannest  what? 
Beyond  all  use,  beyond  all  need! 

Importunate,  unbesought, 

"Unwelcome,  unendurable! 

To  the  vague  boy  I  was  before — 
O  unto  him  thou  earnest  well; 

But  now,  a  boy  no  more, 
201 


"Firm-seated  in  my  proper  good, 
Clear-operant  in  my  functions  due, 

Potent  and  plenteous  of  my  mood, — 
What  hast  thou  here  to  do? 

"Yes,  I  have  loved  thee — love  thee,  yes; 

But  also — hear'st  thou? — also  him 
Who  out  of  Ida's  wilderness 

Over  the  bright  sea-rim, 

"With  shaken  cones  and  mystic  dance, 

To  Dirce  and  her  seven  waters 
Led  on  the  raving  Cory  bants, 

And  lured  the  Theban  daughters 

"To  play  on  the  delirious  hills 

Three  summer  days,  three  summer  nights, 
Where  wert  thou  when  these  had  their  wills? 

How  liked  thee  their  delights? 

"Past  Melos,  Pelos,  to  the  straits, 
The  waters  roll  their  spangled  mirth, 

And  westward,  through  Gibraltar  gates, 
To  my  own  under-earth, 

"My  glad,  great  land,  which  at  the  most 

Knows  that  its  fathers  knew  thee;   so 
Will  spend  for  thee  nor  count  the  cost; 

But  follow  thee?     Ah,  no! 
202 


"Thine  image  gently  fades  from  earth! 

Thy  churches  are  as  empty  shells, 
Dim-plaining  of  thy  words  and  worth, 

And  of  thy  funerals! 

"But  oh,  upon  what  errand,  then, 
Leanest  thou  at  the  sailor's  ear? 

Hast  thou  yet  more  to  say,  that  men 
Have  heard  not,  and  must  hear?" 

Passages  from  Second  Coming 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 


Lo,  I  am  with  you  always,  even 
unto  the  end  of  the  world! 

Loud  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 
Say  Christ  is  crucified  again: 

Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bearing  feet, 
Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 

I  hear  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 

From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 
In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 

In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 
203 


Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah!  never  more  shall  Mary  hear 
That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear: 

Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 

And  Bartimeus  still  go  blind; 
The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 

Be  touched  by  suffering  humankind. 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  on  His  breast. 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 
With  gentle  knocliing  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 

For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed. 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say, 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 

The  Second  Crucifixion 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


INDEX   OF   POEMS 


Anger  of  Christ,  The,  93. 

Annunciation,  The,  3. 

An  Unbeliever,  179. 

Apology  of  Demetrius,  The,  148. 

Ascension,  The,  134. 

At  Bethlehem,  195. 

At  Gethsemane,  105. 

At  Jerusalem,  40. 

At  Jerusalem,  99. 

At  Nazareth,  40. 

At  the  Manger's  Side,  21. 

Baldur  in  Niflheim,  159. 

Ballad  of  the  Comforting,  The, 

117. 

Ballad  of  the  Cross,  The,  26. 
Ballad  of  the  Goodly  Fere,  140. 
Ballad  of  the  Wise  Men,  A,  19. 
Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master, 

A,  104. 

Ballad  of  Wise  Men,  A,  22. 
Blessed  Road,  The,  121. 
Bronze  Christ,  The,  156. 
By  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  63. 

Calvary,  109. 

Carpenter's  Son,  The,  56. 

Cedars  of  Lebanon,  The,  9. 

Child,  41. 

Child  in  the  Midst,  A,  193. 

Childless,  The,  31. 

Child's  Christmas  Song,  A,  178. 

Christ-child,  The,  37. 


Christmas  Folk-Song,  A,  10. 
Christmas  Pilgrimage,  The,  169. 
Christ  of  Raphael's  Transfigura 
tion,  The,  76. 

Christ  of  the  Andes,  The,  190. 
Christ  Scourged,  108. 
Citizen  of  the  World,  75. 
Come  unto  Me,  78. 
Comrade  Jesus,  113. 
Consolator,  82. 
Cost  of  Saving,  The,  79.  , 
Country  Carol,  A,  66. 

Dream  of  Claudia  Procula,  The, 
105. 

Easter,  133. 

Easter  at  Nazareth,  43. 
Easter  Children,  The,  192. 
Empty  Cross,  The,  118. 

Fisherman  Speaks,  A,  139. 
Fishers,  The,  83. 
Flight  into  Egypt,  The,  35. 
From  Bethlehem  to  Calvary,  110. 
From  Nazareth,  68. 

Garden   of   the   Sepulchre,   The, 

127. 

Gates  and  Doors,  5. 
Gennesar,  64. 
Good  Friday,  111. 
Good  Friday  Night,  99. 
Gospel  of  Mark,  The,  143. 
Guard  of  the  Sepulchre,  A,  129. 


205 


His  Birthday,  17. 
His  Laureate,  161. 
How  He  Came,  85. 

In  His  Steps,  66. 
In  Palestine,  63. 
In  the  Carpenter's  Shop,  55. 

Jericho,  86. 

Jewish  Conscript,  The,  183. 

Jew  to  Jesus,  The,  162. 

John,  102. 

Joseph  and  Mary,  12. 

Joses,  the  Brother  of  Jesus,  48. 

Judge  Me,  O  Lord,  174. 

Kings  of  the  East,  The,  16. 

Lament,  The,  98. 

Lark,  The,  120. 

Lazarus,  88. 

Lily,  The,  80. 

Little  Town,  The,  4. 

Lost  Word  of  Jesus,  A,  77. 

Madness,  197. 

Madonna  of  the  Carpenter-Shop, 

The,  30. 

Magdalen  to  Christ,  87. 
Magi  and  the  Faery  Folk,  The,  24 
Martha,  129. 
Mary  at  Nazareth,  45. 
Mary  Magdalen,  131. 
Mary's  Quest,  38. 
Missionaries,  The,  167. 
Mother  and  Son,  47. 
Motherhood,  115. 
Mother,  Mary  25. 
Mother,  The,  116. 
Mount  of  Beatitudes,  The,  69. 
Murillo's   "Holy   Family   of   the 

Little  Bird,"  44. 
Mused  Mary  in  Old  Age,  153. 
My  Father  and  I,  181. 
My  Father's  Business,  42. 
My  Master,  107. 

Nativity  Song,  7,  28. 
Nativity,  The,  36. 
Nazareth,  36. 


Nazareth  Shop,  The,  49. 
Nazareth  Town,  53. 
Nicodemus,  73. 
Ninth  Hour,  The,  111. 

Old  Road  to  Paradise,  The,  189. 
On  Christmas  Day,  198. 
On  Christmas  Eve,  173. 
On  Syrian  Hills,  181. 
Out  of  Egypt  Have  I  Called  My 
Son,  35. 

Page  from  America's  Psalter    A 

191. 

Palm  Sunday,  96. 
Palm  Sunday  in  Galilee,  81. 
Passing  of  Christ,  The,  175 
Pharisee,  The,  70. 
Playmate,  The,  39. 
Prodigal  Son,  The,  71. 

Rabboni,  131. 
Recompense,  The,  132. 

Second  Coming,  199. 

Second  Crucifixion,  The,  203. 

Sepulchre  in  the  Garden,  The,  132. 

Shadow,  The,  52. 

Shepherds,  The,  13. 

Song  of  a  Heathen,  The,  139. 

Star  of  Bethlehem,  The,  15. 

Tears  of  Mary,  The,  29. 

Thief  on  the  Cross,  The,  112. 

Told  in  the  Market-place,  94. 

To  Jesus,  163. 

To  See  the  New  Baby,  11. 

To  the  Christ,  197. 

Twain  of  Her,  The,  74. 

Via  Crucis,  122. 

Vigil  of  Joseph,  The,  32. 

Voice  of  Christmas,  The,  172. 

Was  Subject  Unto  Them,  51. 
When  Christ  Was  Born,  8. 
WTiite  Comrade,  The,  184. 
White  Comrade,  The,  187. 
Wilderness,  The,  65. 
Woman  of  Samaria,  A,  86. 
Wooden  Christ,  The,  183. 


206 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


Garrison,   Theodosia,   3,    26,    29> 

117. 
Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  63,  93, 

139,  175. 


Babcock,  Edwina  Stanton,  94. 

Baird,  George,  M.P.,  22,  153. 

Barker,  Elsa,  32,  192. 

Bates,  Carroll  Lund,  96. 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee,  15, 16,  40,    Going,  Charles  Buxton,  121. 

44,  63,  66,  78,  81,  99,  105,  173.    Guild,  Marian  Pelton,  71. 
Beall,  Dorothy  Landers,  70. 
Binns,  Henry  Bryan,  163. 
]>,*ainerd,  Mary  Bowen,  76. 
Ik-inch,    Anna     Hempstead,    88,    Harding,  Ruth  Guthrie,  30. 


Guiney,  Louise  Imogen,  7,  28. 
Gunsaulus,  Frank  W.,  79. 


179. 
Burr,   Amelia  Josephine,  31,  87, 

159,  187,  195. 

Burt,  Maxwell  Struthers,  122. 
Burton,  Richard,  80,  131,  181. 

Carter,  Elizabeth,  52. 
Clark,  Charles  Badger,  Jr.,  181. 
Cleghorn,  Sarah  N.,  113,  174. 
Coates,  Florence  Earle,  8,  25,  120, 

190. 

Crew,  Helen  Coale,  9. 
Crow,  Martha  Foote,  183. 

Daly,  T.  A.,  178. 
Dawson,  W.  J.,  47,  85. 
Day,  Sarah  J.,  42,  51. 
Duer,  Douglas,  86. 

Erskine,  Barbara  Peattie,  131. 


Hazard,  Caroline,  35,  36,  65,  69, 
86,  98,  111,  129,  133. 

Iris,  Scharmel,  38,  139. 
Jewett,  Sophie,  13. 

Kemp,  Harry,  39,  48,  73,  172. 
Kilmer,  Joyce,  5,  75,  161. 

Lanier,  Sidney,  104. 
Lee,  Agnes,  37,  115. 
Lee,  Harry,  107,  197. 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  203. 
Lillie,  Mai  Elmendorf,  82. 

Mclntyre,  Robert,  49,  167. 
Markham,  Edwin,  127,  129,  134. 
Masters,  Edgar  Lee,  143,  148. 
Monroe,  Harriet,  112. 
Moody,  William  Vaughn,  99,  199. 


Finley,  John,  132. 
Frank,  Florence  Kiper,  162,  183.    Nicholson,  Meredith,  110. 

207 


Pangborn,  Georgia  Wood,  198. 
Peabody,  Josephine  Preston,  83. 
Pettus,  Martha  Elvira,  105. 
Pound,  Ezra,  140. 
Proctor,  Edna  Dean,  40. 

Reese,    Lizette   Woodworth,    10, 

111. 

Rice,  Cale  Young,  45,  118. 
Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington,  109. 

Sandburg,  Carl,  41. 
Sangster,   Margaret  E.,   68,   193. 
Schauffler,  Robert  Haven,  184. 
Scollard,   Clinton,  4,  43,  53,  64, 
156,  169. 


Smith,  May  Riley,  17. 
Stott,  Roscoe  Oilman,  12. 

Tabb,  J.  B.,  132,  197. 
Teasdale,  Sara,  55,  56. 
Thomas,  Edith  M.,  11,  24. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  35,  36,  77. 

Walsh,  Thomas,  21. 

Ward,  Elizabeth  Stuart    Phelps, 

74. 

Wattles,  Willard,  102,  191. 
Wheelock,  John  Hall,  116. 
Widdemer,  Margaret,  19,  66,  189. 
Woodberry,  George  Edward,  108. 


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